The Long Road Home
by Child of Loki
Summary: Emily fights to return to Matt, but with Connor missing and the apocalypse imminent, it seems the battle's not over. AU SERIES 5. Chapter 21: Even when she was a little girl, Emily always took the long road home... (Genre: ACTION!)
1. Beginning of the End

**Disclaimer: I don't own Primeval or its characters…**

**Author's note: Basically, a resolution to the 4x07 cliffy, in an Emily-focused way. Also some back story for her. Character focus/POV varies by chapter (as needed to tell story), so basically, includes a bunch of characters (probably just those in series 4, though hard to say quite yet…)

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The air tasted metallic, sulfuric, despite the efforts of the filter sealed over her nose and mouth. Thinking about the barrier only incited a panic akin to one drowning. Shallow breaths were key. Just keep a steady, short rhythm. And do not, under any circumstances, think about the small device that was the only thing preventing the toxic atmosphere from blistering vulnerable tissue to shreds. Granted that maintaining a steady intake of air was more difficult whilst traversing rough terrain. Climbing the side of a respectably steep hill made it near impossible. It felt as if her lungs were sucking air through a narrow tube.

After little physical difficulty but much struggling against over-breathing her filter, she ascended the hill and looked out over a basin. There was a time when 'valley' would be the term she favoured. However, in this place, it was scarce appropriate. 'Valley' was a term that dredged up imagery of fertile, idyllic splendor. This place was not remotely reminiscent of any ideal she had ever associated with the term. No, this was nothing more than a basin. A lifeless, geologic feature.

She shaded her eyes against the sun. Again, the term seemed inappropriate. The sky was dark, gloomy and entirely without a hint of the blue she had longed for since she had first set foot in this place. The strange sun shown blood red through the veil of particulates permanently suspended in the aether. A cheerful yellow, she ached for...

This place broke her heart in so many ways. The most severe of which was the utter loneliness of the surface. However, that same desolateness should aide her search. She scanned the dusty, rocky, _dead_ -like this whole bloody world- basin, squinting against the red sun which was in her direct line of sight. Other than currently rendering her blind, the orb barely gave enough light to see one's feet as they traipsed forward, tripping and stumbling, over the surface.

There, as the terrain sloped up the basin wall, glittering with a light and colours no longer native to this world, a gateway in time shone bright. The gateway for which she'd been searching, waiting. She deftly pulled the rifle from its holster and laying belly down on the rough gravel, brought the weapon up as if to discharge it but only sighted the scope on target.

It was most decidedly a gateway.

The unnatural light flickered, a shadow crossing before it. With a delicate stroke of the panel on the side of the scope, the lens focused tighter. The shadow was a man in black military fatigues. She inhaled too sharply for her filter's proper function and subpurified air bit at her insides, causing her to wheeze. After a moment recovering her breath, she sighted on the gateway once more. She had allowed her emotions to carry her away. The man wasn't whom she had presumed him to be upon first glance. Neither were the two other whom had joined it through the gateway.

And yet it wasn't a complete disappointment. Even from this distance, she was certain the fatigues were of the right period. True, military uniforms were much slower to change than societal fashion trends. But everything, every instinct told her this was the _right _gateway.

Just as she was wondering how she'd cover all the open ground and slip through the hole in time undetected, the three men doubled over with apparent coughing fits. They had been ill-equipped for the hostile environment. She smiled, feeling the filter pull against the movement of the muscles in her face. They withdrew.

_Damnation!_

How long until they locked the gateway? For they surely would do so if they followed the procedure of those she presumed to hail from the same time. Or if they were who she feared them to be, they might close it entirely. She could only hope that they had returned in order to acquire better equipment with which to explore this place.

Holding the rifle to her chest -who could say whether there were nearby gateways releasing terrible creatures to pounce on her- she sprinted for the gateway. Even knowing the result of such straining physical activity didn't prepare her for the pain as her lungs began to suck in the corrosive unpurified air faster than her filter could cope. She steeled herself against the burning agony and commenced the mental preparations necessary for a fight if the situation on the other side called for it.

Slowing only marginally, she dropped to a slide though the sparkling gateway, drawing the rifle butt to her shoulder in anticipation of having to discharge it.

_Arrogant sods!_

They had left the room holding the open gateway entirely vacant. This could be only _one_ place. And the coat of arms painted on the otherwise sterile white walls only confirmed such conclusion.

_Prospero._

She ripped the filter from her face, gasping like a fish out of water. Her eyes watered as she choked and coughed, the clean air pushing out the corrosive gas burning her lungs. She hacked until tainted mucus filled her mouth and she promptly spat it onto the formerly pristine floor. It was unladylike, but she allowed herself the brief entertainment of triumph over sullying the place. With a groan, she picked herself up off the ground. Her hip announced its distaste for the use to which she had put it. The skin was likely already discolored and would remain tender for days if not weeks. Running a hand down the outside of her thigh, she examined her trousers. Not even the slightest sign of damage. Any other pair, or her skirts would've seen her leg shredded to the bone upon the gravelly pumice on the other side of the gateway. _Borrowing _them had definitely proven a good idea.

Cautiously, she approached the only door granting access to the room.

No doubt there would be a guard outside. The room was probably sealed, likely monitored, which would explain even the pompous Philip Burton's confidence in leaving a gaping hole in time idling by itself.

All of which meant that she didn't have much time. Rather ironic an observance when her lifestyle as of late was taken into consideration. Trying the handle proved futile. There was some kind of electronic lock beside door. Much technology still remained entirely outside of her comprehension. But she knew this much: On the whole, they did not like electromagnetic pulses.

Stepping back, she raised her rifle and shot the locking mechanism, which decided that it wanted to go out with style, spewing sparks and making several popping noises.

Unfortunately, the door was hung in the manner as to cause it to swing into the room. The adrenaline coursing through her veins would've been much appeased by kicking it roughly open. Plus, in doing so, there was the delicious possibility of incapacitating any guard with the heavy metal panel. But alas, she was forced to inhale in a deep, steadying manner, wrap her fingers about the handle and pull the door open, briefly exposing herself to...

...Well, apparently nothing.. No guard could be seen. A brief bout of superiority claimed her thoughts. Were they really _so_ careless? And then a great din filled the building, echoing through the vast, empty corridors. Disabling the lock on the room had gotten their attention. She'd have to be quick.

The schematics she had recovered for the building had been partial at best. However, she was certain that the only road adjoining the complex to the rest of the world lay to the north of the site. She tried her compass, but the gateway was playing havoc with it. Glancing out a window to find the sun -a beautiful golden sun- she settled upon a direction and sprinted down the corridor, rifle at the ready. Not exactly a good close-range weapon, but hopefully there'd be time to pull up on anyone who needed incapacitating. Which in this godforesaken place was likely everyone.

She rounded a corner, barely slowing, and ran straight into a wall.

Only this wall was made of flesh and grunted from the force of the impact. It also staggered several feet as her much smaller frame was likewise rebounded. Despite the fact that every person in the building was now aware of her presence, the large man seemed startled by her sudden appearance.

Both in the past and future, far before mankind walked upright and far after every trace of him had been erased by time, there were superpredators. The slightest hesitation in the presence of these creatures resulted in immediate death. Or slow, grotesque, agonizing, but just as inevitable, death. Thus the advantage in this confrontation fell to the person most experienced in such situations, rather than to the man who hesitated for a stunned second.

She took the opportunity to promptly strike her bewildered opponent aside the head with the butt of her rifle. Granted, she had to jump a little to do so, but her aim was apt enough. The weapon slammed against his temple with a muted 'crack' absorbed by the tissue and bone of his cranium. He crumpled to the ground with a much louder declaration of flesh colliding with immutable substance.

The man who had customized the weapon for her had seemed especially proud of the fact the stock was manufactured from an alloy with a substance called 'titanium.' From all the technical babble, she gathered that this rendered it lighter, easier for her to handle. It also meant that she could fracture as many skulls as she desired without worrying about damaging her beloved rifle.

The next few corridors were rather smooth traversing and with a quick glance round, she took a moment to get her bearings. And that's when she saw _him._

There was some sort of atrium that ran parallel to the corridor. The conjoining wall was made entirely of glass, from ceiling (at least double her height) to the floor. The greenery had attracted her attention, if only for its disparities with the rest of the building she'd observed thus far. Plants from more geological eras than she could identify filled the space. And yet her eye line had been perfectly aligned to see between the massive branches of ferns. She could see, across the atrium in a glass-encased corridor similar to the one which she was traversing, Philip Burton.

She came to an abrupt halt, drawing her favourite weapon to her shoulder.

_How did one set this thing to kill?_

She could end this. She could end this right this moment. She'd arrived to relatively the correct time. And if it were just a bit too late, if events had already been set into motion, she could still avenge the world upon him at any rate.

Her finger had begun squeezing the trigger of its own accord by the time she realized the glass was obstructing her shot and eased up slightly. For some odd reason, the barrier was the breaking point that released her fury. She adeptly flipped the rifle round and began assaulting the glass with a jarring amount of force.

Hateful _Bam. _loathsome _Bam. _evil. _Bam. _man! _Bam. _

Blasted _Bam. _vile _Bam. _blighter! _Bam. _

The _Bam. _pompous _Bam. _bastard! _Bam. _

Spawn _Bam. _of _Bam. _the _Bam. _devil! _Bam. _

Go _Bam. _back _Bam. _to _Bam. _hell.! _Bam. _

DIE! _Bam. _

Not even a crack. She screamed through clenched teeth, a guttural cry of frustration. And stopped dead. All the ruckus had garnered her prey's attention. Their eyes met momentarily and she sent every seething thought in her head towards him, hoping that perhaps the overwhelming vehemence might cause his head to explode in a fantastical spray of gore.

It did not.

And it was time to run.

Perhaps, she should run towards the harbinger of doom and destroy him even if it meant her own death. But then, if the events that ended in nothing more than the destruction of this wondrous world had already begun, there would be no one to warn _him_, tell the only people who could stop Burton's _New Dawn._

She had responsibilities besides a vendetta against a corrupt man. They may not originally have been her burden, but she had taken it upon herself, and she could not easily shed it simply because her instincts and desires clashed with the ideals.

Her brief entertainment of blood lust may have already cost her the ability to escape this place. But there had been plenty of practice outrunning extraordinarily quick creatures and her legs were well trained.

They bolted on her behalf.

After what seemed an impossibly infinite amount of corridors, finally an exit appeared. The impact with the door was so sudden a stop that she near fell backward onto her bottom. Apparently, the building had been secured.

Audible shouts echoed down the hall, getting louder, closer, detectable even over the cacophony of the blaring alarms. Being only moments away from capture by people whom she readily believed to posses no limits to their depravity, she panicked. She thrashed against the door, crying out in desperate incoherent growls. Same as in that corridor, the glass was not glass, and did not break.

Her rifle bumped against her leg. A gentle reminder by a loyal friend.

Locking down a building with fancy electronic mechanisms was all well and good. It sort of defeated the purpose, however, when there was a key panel controlling the locking mechanism in plan view of someone with an Electromagnetic rifle.

A smile spread across the formerly panicked features of her face as she once more opened a supposedly secure door with a destructive spray of sparks.

The tree-line of an adequately dense-looking wood was a matter of moments away at a full sprint. Luckily, by the time weapons had been aimed in her general direction, the dense underbrush had already covered her escape. Forests were a particular purview of hers. Go ahead and send the punishers in after her. Just see what would happen next.

The former Lady Emily Merchant smiled from her perch high in the bright green foliage of an oak. For a moment, she would wait, just until the coast was clear. Then soon, very soon, she would find the man who had sent her home to her time and the ARC team she had met so long ago, and together they would change the future...

Or die in the attempt.

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**Author's Note: Had to write an Emily-centric, post 4x07 fic. She comes off as fairly tough, but I had the urge to make her completely badass (well, as much as I can manage)…**


	2. End of the Beginning

**Author's note: Felt like this bit of back story belonged here, just for the contrast of the badass version of Emily in the first chapter. A little short, but not for its purposes, I think.

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_One Hundred and forty-nine years earlier..._

The gown was the most restrictive of any she had adorned previously. True, none were so liberating as when she daringly snuck into her brothers' wardrobes and selected her choice of trousers and shirtsleeves. Thus scandalously attired, she'd make off to the outer edges of her father's estate, and spend hours with her bare feet stood in the brooks, casting about the eddies and pools for the biggest trout. The smooth, rounded pebbles between her toes. The chill of the water about her ankles as the hot summer sun broke through the rustling green foliage. The musk of woods mixed with the perfume of wildflowers. And the sounds of the babbling water and birds in the trees. The warm breeze caressing her cheek.

Never again.

Emily sighed, running her hands down the front of her delicate silk taffeta gown, smoothing the fabric along the bodice. This relatively recent whim of society for extravagant, uselessly white wedding gowns. She did not know what to make of it. And she was certain she could never wear the gown again, even after altering its form. For being the girl -_woman_ she was, she would doubtless find some manner in which to spoil it. For certain, she would prefer to be married in her Sunday best, just as her mother had done.

Glancing up she caught the eyes of the stranger staring out at her from the looking glass. They were big, round eyes. A deep brown. And positively terrified. Oh, and perhaps a bit sad.

Who was this girl looking at her?

She was not young Miss Emily Smith.

And she was not Lady Emily Merchant, either.

There was a coldness deep in the pit of her stomach that led her to believe that she would _never_ be Lady Merchant in anything beyond title.

The girl in the looking glass was _not_ even a girl.

It seemed like Emily had closed her eyes when the world was still novel and exciting to her, and when she opened them she was a weary woman of almost unmarriageable age. Two and twenty years, practically a spinster. However, her father had allayed arranging any sort of attachment for his daughter until he was in the position to link his family with a title. All the wealth born of industry and hard work did not buy respect amongst the upper classes.

What such hard-earned wealth could not do, however, apparently a daughter might.

The maid who had been fussing with Emily's hair dropped her nimble fingers from the piles of dark curls pinned artfully atop Emily's head.

"How's that, m' _lady_?" Amelia asked, emphasizing the title her mistress was about to acquire. The attendant adored teasing her. And it was most assuredly Emily's own encouragement that precipitated the young woman's forward behavior.

Her father had always required Emily's respect. Speak only when addressed. Fulfill all requests made of her. Aide her mother in entertaining the guests. Compose herself with decorum. Be the charming young woman a daughter of a man of import to society should be. Do not carry on in the manner they had indulged her as a child, cavorting with her brothers, hunting and fishing and messing about.

And now he expected her to marry a man she had met only twice before this day.

But at least, her father had arranged matters that Amelia should accompany her to her new home, to serve as her lady's maid. The young woman was the closest companion she had, and likely her dearest friend since Miss Jane Whitbourne had become mistress of the small village parish.

Emily sighed again. She had been left behind, alone, since all the young woman in her society of relative age married long ago. They still called upon her, but sitting in the parlour, taking tea and idle chatter, she found they held no common interest. Their lives were so disparate. Yet the promise of once more being knowledgeable upon the subjects of interest to her peers gave little comfort.

She feared she would not do well as the elegant, refined, and submissive wife of a lord. Her spirit was unfortunately of the curious and wild persuasion.

Amelia affixed the veil to her brown curls, and draped it. As it fell like a curtain before her face, obscuring the girl in the looking glass, Emily could not deny the comparison of her mind to that of a caged bird.

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**A/N: Apologies if the jumping about is confusing. Let me know. I enjoy dabbling in non-linear styles sometimes… (but it doesn't mean I'm good at it)**


	3. Beginning to Worry

**Author's Note: Abby-centric chapter, to pick up the whole creepy Philip's semi-abduction of Connor thread…

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_Back in the year 2011..._

There was a cyclone of green in the fluorescently lit and otherwise monochromatic research lab. At its epicenter, a young blonde woman spun on her heel, trying to pinpoint the source of the verdant blur.

"Rex," she scolded, trying to keep the amusement from her voice. If the little _coelurosauravus_ at all thought she was enjoying his antics, there would be no stopping him.

"Come down. _Now_."

Generally, Abby did not like to behave in a intimidating fashion towards the creatures. But she had already tried coaxing the prehistoric flying lizard to no avail. She was tired. She was hungry. She just wanted to curl up with Connor on Jess' sofa and watch some mindless television program and unwind from a _very_ long day.

The firm tone seemed to convince the little reptile to quit his aerial display, and he lighted upon the table in front of her with a chirp. With a cock of his head, Rex seemed to ask her why his playtime was over.

"Don't give me that look," Abby warned, smile twitching her lips. "I have to go be unconscious now. And you need your rest, besides. So back into the menagerie with ya."

Rex chirped.

How a reptile could manage puppy-dog eyes, Abby had no idea. But the little creature was giving her the strongest, saddest she'd ever seen.

"I know," she conceded. "Maybe once we get settled into a place of our own... We'll have a talk with Lester about bringing you home."

Rex didn't move, didn't blink.

"Promise. Okay?"

With a couple flaps of his wings, the little prehistoric creature took to the air and glided to the door, giving Abby a happy chirp.

"Good boy," Abby rewarded the lizard's behaviour and saw him back to the menagerie.

One critter dealt with... now to collect the larger, less than well-behaved one. It would take a good deal of coaxing to pry _Connersaurus Geekerensis _away from his equations and computer models after an event like today's. It was so odd, those anomalies behaving so strangely, that it had even intrigued Abby, who generally cared little for how they worked, only that the clashing of worlds did not bring harm to anyone, of the human or creature persuasion.

But she had her ways of persuasion...or wiles, as it were. Though she was feeling rather too exhausted to dreg them up to blind Connor into following her home. Granted, it didn't take much suggestion of that nature to distract the young man. But still...

She popped into the ladies' and stood before the mirror for a moment, fixing her hair and willing away the dark circles that had begun to form under her eyes. Well, best she could do…

"Connor?" she asked as announcement of her presence. She rapped on the door frame. It was 'off limits' to anyone besides Burton and Connor, but Abby could care less about what the pompous mogul wanted. It did seem to bother Connor, however, when she stuck him in the middle. Forcing the passionate science geek to choose was cruel and unusual punishment. And no matter how she enjoyed teasing him, she loved him too much to want to cause him pain in any form. And so, she waited for invitation to the room, that he had hid away his classified projects and it was safe for her to enter.

But no invitation came.

"Connor, you in here?" she asked again. He could be absent minded but he always remembered to shut down everything in his workspace when he left. She peeked into the room. There was a laptop set up on a table, formulas projected on one of the walls. And no Connor.

Odd.

He must be around somewhere nearby. To have left mid-calculation was not at all like him. At least, there was an easy way to find out without carrying out a room-by-room search of the complex research center.

Abby made her way towards the hub, glad to find that Jess had not yet called it quits for the day, either. The girl was probably too worried about Becker, who had been rushed to infirmary upon being found unconscious in the corridor, shot by Ethan with an EMD. They all knew how Jess felt about the captain. She would more than likely not leave until she was assured that he was okay.

"Jess," Abby said in as calm a voice she could muster. There was a growing knot deep in her stomach, and it was difficult not to let her discomfort show.

The young woman visibly jumped in her seat. The computer screen she had been fixated upon quickly turned black as she hastily closed whatever it was she'd been doing. She turned wide, startled eyes upon Abby.

"What?" The brunette's voice squeaked. She swallowed, and in a much more controlled tone, asked "What can I do for you?"

Abby narrowed her eyes. Why was the girl behaving like a teenage boy caught staring at porn mags by his mother?

"I was wondering if you knew where Connor's gotten to?" Abby asked slowly, eyeing her friend suspiciously.

"Er... Last I saw him, he was trying to find Mr. Burton," she said. "He seemed really agitated by something."

Jess worried her lower lip a bit.

What wasn't she telling?

After a moment's contemplation, she leaned in to whisper to Abby. So quiet was the girl, that Abby was forced to lean as well to share in the conspiratorially inaudible conversation.

"Judging by Connor's behaviour, it was something big," Jess whispered. "I had expected for him to want to talk to Lester when he got back, whether he'd found Phillip or not. It seemed off when we never heard any more about it. I mean, for Connor to be _that _excited and not to get your ear talked off, whether you're actually interested or not-"

It was true, but

"The point, Jess," Abby hissed.

"I checked the CCTV footage," Jess answered soberly. Thankfully, she appeared to decide to let the surveillance video do the talking and turned back to her computer station.

What she had been perusing when Abby approached her was security footage. Specifically it was of the parking garage. A figure Abby'd recognize anywhere, even if only the smallest portion of it were visible -an arm, a leg, wouldn't matter- appeared. Connor ran out and flagged the departing vehicle down like his life depended upon it. Philip Burton emerged from the car. Words were exchanged. Connor was ushered into the car.

"See," Jess said. "It's probably nothing."

She sounded more like she was attempting to convince herself than reassure Abby.

"No," Abby countered coldly. The knot in her stomach had disappeared. But so had her stomach and the rest of her insides. She felt quite hollow. "I know Connor. He's in trouble."

And it was up to her to watch his back. Their mutual protectiveness was more than just an unspoken pact. It was how they had survived a year in the cretaceous. When it came down to it, they only had each other. Together, they were whole. Apart, they were nothing.

She would get him back.

Abby moved to stalk off, but Jess caught her arm. When the blonde woman whirled on the timid girl with a fierce expression, Jess physically flinched. But she did not back down.

"Abby, wait," she pleaded. "There's more."

Jess pulled Abby back into her rendition of a scene from a bad spy movie.

"Matt just rang my personal mobile," Jess whispered. Abby bit her tongue, figuring the field coordinator wouldn't be so dramatic about a banal social chat. "He wanted to inform me that he changed his mind and he _does_ need my help with the project we'd started."

This time, Abby thought she might have drawn blood for the frustration, but still kept her mouth shut. Jess could be sensitive, especially when stressed. And however much it felt like a root canal, the girl was trying to tell her something she felt was important.

But what the hell? Was she helping him with some interior decorating? Abby could not picture that man asking for such aide.

"He wanted me to go over to his flat as soon as I finished up here," Jess continued. "We're not close at all. I mean, he doesn't seem to let any of us close, does he? Except for Emily...but she's gone now, which is sad because she was rather nice and I think we could've-"

"Jess," Abby snapped. The bright red, shapely lips were instantly pressed into a thin line, and the rambling ceased. "You think he was trying to tell you something, something that has to do with what had Connor so worked up?"

"I think Matt believes it's not safe to talk in the ARC," Jess whispered so lightly, her voice sounded like the faintest wisps of wind. "And if Philip Burton... _abducted_..." Jess winced, apparently in distaste for the word or the implication. "Then he's right. Burton's people have full access to the ARC systems. They can monitor us any time they like..." She paused, a smug look on her face. "Unless I decide they shouldn't be spying... Of course, locking them out would alert them just as much."

"I don't see what difference this makes," Abby said, her voice strained. "Connor's still in trouble. And I _need_ to find him."

"Who knows what kind of people Burton has working for him," Jess argued. "Or how many. You can't do this on your own, Abby."

Abby sighed. Adrenaline had flooded her body in a monstrous wave. If Connor had been at her side, she would've opted for the 'flight' response. Since his disappearance was the catalyst for the chemical surge currently setting every single one of her nerves on edge, she had opted for fight. And it was hard to back off, even the little required to think straight.

"Alright," she conceded. "When are you meeting Matt?"

"As soon as we make our exit look casual enough not to arouse suspicion," Jess replied quietly, adding much more loudly, "Give me a few minutes and I'll meet you at your car."

"Okay, but you're buying the first round if I have to drive," Abby replied in a faux facetious manner. She walked away, concentrating on every step in order not to sprint in the manner that she always fell to when her instincts took over. The edginess of the adrenaline hadn't subsided. Neither had the rapid beating of her heart.

She would go with Jess, listen to what Matt had to say. And if it did nothing to help Connor, then she would fetch him back herself. There was time at least to give her friends a chance. The threat hadn't been overt. The casual observer, a stranger to those in that surveillance video, would think nothing of it. But she knew Connor Temple. It was more than just his body language that had alerted her to danger. She knew him like he was the other half of her soul.

Perhaps, because he was.

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**A/N: Can Abby save Connor? Does he really need saving? Will she let the others help her? What does Matt want to discuss with Jess? Stay tuned… :-)**


	4. Unexpected Unendings

**Author's Note: Looks like it's just me and Ruthibobs enjoying this fic... But that's not going to stop me from writing/sharing it. :-) Matt-centric chapter… (because I can't seem to stay out of his head.)

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_Fifteen Minutes earlier..._

Matt sighed. It'd been an intense day at the end of a long week. And it had left him feeling... uncertain. Too much had happened, and his brain was trying to play catch up when it wasn't running at peak efficiency. Needless to say, he had a headache, amongst other complaints that he was also uncertain of at this point but would no doubt be extremely apparent by the morning.

Unlocking the door to his flat, he trudged up the stairs like they were the approach to the summit of Mount Everest. A meal was probably called for. He couldn't remember the last thing he'd eaten. Yet he wasn't hungry in the least. Sleep was the only other thing he could think to do, and with the state of his mind, there was no way it was a possibility. So he headed for the kitchen.

However, he was interrupted before he even remotely neared his destination. There was a shadowed silhouette in his still dark flat. Turning on a light hadn't even occurred to him as routine guided his steps. His night vision required another check, though, considering he had made it halfway through the flat without noticing the uninvited presence.

Sidling over to the nearest switch without removing his gaze from the shadowy figure, he turned the lights on, illuminating the last thing he had ever expected to find stood less than ten feet in front of him.

"Emily?"

It hadn't even been ten hours since she'd disappeared through the anomaly. The hole in time had closed behind her, leaving no trace of the woman except for the knot that had formed in his stomach. He had instantly regretted sending her away. But it had been the _right _thing to do. And yes, not just for her, to keep her safe, but to protect himself as well.

Then, why was there an unwarranted happiness burgeoning deep down inside of him, beneath all of the confusion?

And how the hell had she returned? The anomaly had closed before his very eyes. He would've been alerted if it had reopened.

Matt scrutinized the woman standing before him more closely. She had changed. Not severely. But subtly noticeable in various ways. For one, the clothes were different than the skirts and jacket she adorned when they first met and when she had returned to the 19th century. (Well, the familiar white of her corset peaked out of her shirt.) Beyond her, slung across a chair, there was some sort of long coat. Something about it, about her appearance tickled his brain. But the headache could just be playing tricks on him.

Beside the chair, an EMD rifle was stood, recognizable in its form and function. Familiar, yet it was not one of any of the models he had designed for the ARC. And next to it, a flak jacket or some such similar body armour.

Her kit had most definitely changed.

At her right side, there was a holster on her belt which appeared to house what looked like an old Webley. Another belt slung more loosely across her hips, and a rapier hung at her left side. Her hand was subconsciously rested upon the scabbard.

The trousers she adorned were mottled and dark, and seemed to strain to contain her curves. They disappeared into the tops of tall leather riding boots. At least, those were the same. The light glinted off the delicate handle of the dagger tucked into the top of her left boot. He smiled, remembering the object. Like Emily, it appeared delicate, elegant, but was as sharp as they came. Protruding from her other boot, there was a matte black handle, chunky, utilitarian. It bespoke a large, menacing combat knife hidden away.

She was prepared for the worst.

What had happened to her?

She had changed. Weariness was etched in her features. And steel. This woman seemed more restrained as she simply stared at him with large, brown eyes, eyes that nonetheless shone with tears threatening to spill. But she didn't cry. And she didn't smile that radiant smile that lit up her entire being. The corner of her mouth twitched in defiance of her control, but she remained stoic. Her free hand betrayed her, however, as she clenched her fist to stay her trembling fingers.

She didn't move towards him. She didn't speak. Was she waiting for him to-_wait!_

That something that had been nagging at the back of his mind... It had finally clicked into place. Those trousers. Those trousers that didn't quite fit her -but in a splendid, sensuous sort of way. He recognized the odd material. It was the skin of what his ARC team would call a 'future predator', painstakingly cured and stretched, sealed and finished in a chemical coating he had never bothered to ask about. It produced the most durable garments he had ever encountered, and precisely what was necessary to venture into the abrasive surface of his world.

But more than that, he recognized this specific pair of trousers, knew the hand that produced those neat stitches. He felt momentarily light-headed and queasy. Never had he felt so exposed, so vulnerable.

"You've been to my home," he managed to croak, meeting those expressive round eyes once again. Not just an era relative to his time. Not some random place in Earth Below during his specific time. In _his_ home. The place in which he had been born and raised. The place where, apparently, his things were still kept. She had been inside of the secret he kept buried the deepest, closest to his heart. She had rifled through his possessions, taken his old surface clothes, ones he hadn't worn since he was an adolescent.

"What's your fascination with pilfering my clothing?" he asked facetiously, a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood, break her restraint. Oddly, it actually worked. She broke into one of her most beautiful smiles, the kind that lit up her entire face and she once again looked like the Emily he'd seen earlier that day, before...

The pent up tears spilled down her cheeks.

"_Oh, Matt_."

It was a desperate, sorrowful utterance. But it was also filled with relief, joy.

And with that, she threw herself at him, almost knocking him over. Her embrace was so tight. He found himself hugging her back just as intensely. She felt the same. Yet different. Emily had been a slender -but not too thin- woman last time he'd hugged her close. And comfortingly, _alluringly_ soft. Now, now she felt somewhat leaner, harder. Still, like earlier that day, it occurred to him that if he had his way, he'd never let her go.

But all things had to come to an end.

He eased up the pressure with which he held her to his chest, then dropped his arms from around her. Taking the cue, she did likewise and stepped back, looking away as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. She didn't want to show her weakness to him.

It had never bothered her to reveal her emotions to him before.

"What happened to you, Emily?" he inquired. Her face darkened and she swallowed. The physical changes, the small differences in demeanor and personality... "How long has it been?"

"That's the precise question I've been meaning to ask of you," she replied.

All right. The lass didn't want to talk about it. He could play that game for now. But he would get it out of her later. He _had_ to know. If she had suffered because he sent her away, because he hadn't been there...

"You returned to 1867 earlier today," He answered, trying to keep all the insane emotions, confusing thoughts, and aching throb in his head from showing in his voice. "The anomaly closed directly behind you."

Her eyes grew wider. Her hand went to her stomach and she looked a bit unsteady on her feet for a moment.

It had been _that_ long for her. Long enough that the fact next to no time had passed for him was most apparently difficult to accept. Yet, she didn't look much older, physically. Maybe just her soul had aged.

"Oh my," she said lightly, and then proceeded to talk to herself. "No. No, this is decidedly better.

And then she straightened, her features growing hard once more. She pinned him with her most intense, dark stare.

"Matt, we have to go to the ARC," she announced, moving to collect her things. He caught her arm, turning her to face him.

"Not until you tell me what's going on, what's happened to you," he said sternly. "_I need to know_."

He hadn't meant to growl that last bit at her. He hadn't meant to say it at all.

She shrugged off his hand and gave him a reassuring smile that was belied by the turmoil in her eyes.

"There will be ample time to become reacquainted later," she said. Pausing for a beat, she added, "That is, if there is a later."

Matt gave her a look of utter curiosity but kept his mouth shut. Let someone else lead for a change. If only for a moment...

"We need to get to the ARC, roust your team," she reasserted. "We will need to act quickly if you want to prevent Philip Burton's ending the world."

So, Emily had figured out who was responsible. For him, his instincts had always led him in that direction, but he hoped she had some solid proof to convince the others. He was about to tell her as much when she frowned significantly.

"And if you wish to save Connor Temple's life."

* * *

**A/N: Desperately fighting the urge to have Matt and Emily 'make babies' (as my friend puts it). We'll see how long I can keep this relatively smut-free… Since I meant to have a bit of action (which appears to be lacking) as well as angsty back story for Emily.**


	5. Beginning a New Path

**Author's Note: More Emily back story. So I didn't realize until I rewatched the last episode that Emily describes herself to Jess as 'the new bride who went to investigate the golden light.' I had already formed an idea of her history, so well, I decided to go with it. Here is why 1. A runaway bride? Boring! And overused. 2. 'new bride' could be a term applied to a woman up to a year afterwards or even later until she was a mother. 3. Maybe Emily was summarizing, making a long story short. 4. This is a fanfic, so I can really do whatever I want. And I think this is more entertaining… Enjoy?**

***I stole a name from somewhere else...mainly because I'm lazy. Can you figure it out?***

**Warning: Brief (?) amount of violence and gore...**

* * *

_144 years earlier..._

The air was less than bracing, the scenery less than inspiring, but Emily was nonetheless glad to be free of Woodlawn. Granted, the estate boasted acreage among the best.

However, the wife of Lord Merchant was expected _not_ to ride bareback through the meadows, despite the exhilarating liberty of the speed. A lady was to possess a seat with posture, poise and grace on a fully saddled horse, possibly even acquiring the awkward but more lady-like method of riding side-saddle. She was most decidedly _not_ to adorn trousers or gather up her skirts and ride with her thighs gripping the sides of the wondrous animal. She was _not_ to lean down close and cling to its shoulders and neck. _Not_ to feel the powerful muscle and sinew shift beneath its hide. _Not_ to become one with the creature, incorporating into her own being the joy and liberty of galloping freely across hill and dale. And she was most definitely _not _to return to the manor in full view of the household with wild hair, disheveled clothing, flushed cheeks and smelling profusely of horse.

The Lady Merchant was also expected _not_ to run barefoot through the unmanicured lawns and untamed wood. She was to take a turn about the gardens, if she wished. She was _not_ to take the fishing tackle from where she'd hidden it beneath her bed, disappear for an entire day and return at dusk touting a hamper filled to the brim with trout and bass. Managing the lands was within the gamekeeper's duties, and under the purview of the lord of the manor.

The household was hers to manage.

And for once she was thankful this were so.

It granted her the excuse to escape the estate on this, well, not too meteorologically beautiful, but no less wonderful a day. Her husband had complained in his subtle way about the quality of the dinner they had served the last party. The mutton had been too fatty. The veal too tough. Normally, Emily would only be required to draw up a menu and turn it over to the head butler or kitchen staff, and that aspect of her role as hostess would be completed. But as a dutiful wife, she had taken it upon herself to select the choicest cuts of meat for the next dinner party.

At least, that was what she allowed others to believe. What did it matter that she could care less about a hunk of cooked flesh -undeniably prepared in a spectacularly pretty manner- served to a society of persons prepared in an equally extravagant manner? As long as appearances were kept, everyone was happy. And she was happy to have the change in routine the errand provided.

Her life was rather dull. She could not abide the company of her husband's sisters, or that of the neighbouring families when they visited. No one commented outright, but their pity and judgment upon Emily was no less felt. A wife of five years and a mother for none. There should've been at least one child and the next in the oven. And of course, it was _her_ fault for not giving Lord John Merchant an heir. Did they not consider the possibility that the problem was with the man? The Merchant family's blood was far too blue and thick. The scarcity of heirs over the past few generations had been one of the reasons they so eagerly accepted the daughter of a mere tradesman (albeit a wealthy one) as wife for the lord of the estate.

Thus, she was held in great disfavour with the entire Merchant family (except the distant cousins who stood to inherit upon lack of a closer male relative). Emily had tried to perform her other wifely duties with precision and fervor in the hopes that it would somehow amend her other 'failings'. But she found she simply did not care anymore. She did not care about entertaining the wives of John's society friends. She did not care about redecorating the wing occupied by his mother in papers the old crone would find pleasing. She did not care about maintaining a fashionable appearance as to bolster the Merchants' status in society. She did not care about throwing elaborate dinners and balls for the same society that criticized and gossiped and pitied her behind her back. She did not care about the quality of those dinners. However, she found she rather enjoyed the bustling market with people she could observe without the pressures of false conversations and appeasing their sensibilities.

And if she ever wanted to do so again, she would have to at least feign interest in the responsibility bestowed upon her and produce a satisfactory result. Hence, she had brought Amelia along. A servant would've been requisite despite her _in cognito _appearance (passable as a tradesman's wife -the kind of woman not uncommonly found to oversee the shopping herself- in her modest cotton street costume. Oh, heaven forbid that her mother-in-law ever learned her to possess a cotton dress!). And Amelia was the best choice of accompaniment. Not only for the fact the young woman was Emily's closest companion. The mousy-looking girl was the daughter of a butcher and retained the appropriate expertise.

They had slowed their progress through the crowded, noisy, grime-laden street as they entered the section where the butchers had spontaneously congressed. There were street vendors displaying various, relatively fresh-looking cuts of likely questionable meats. Even had Amelia not warned against granting them patronage, Emily would've shied away from the chops, steaks, cutlets, tenderloins and roasts exposed to the dust and dirt of the street. And the sizeable crowd was stirring up quite the sandstorm today.

"You'll be wanting one of the well established shops," Amelia advised. "The kind that survives because of the loyalty of its patrons."

The young attendant looked about the line of shops and open market, scrutinizing the options. Even had Emily been able to see through the mass of people hurrying about their business, she admittedly would still have been out of her depth. Yet, despite feeling a bit overwhelmed, she smiled to see Amelia come alive in such a manner. There was more than a hint of happy nostalgia in the girl as she imparted her knowledge upon her mistress. There was a levity and ease in her manner contrary to her typical servant's demeanor, which tended to be all reserved unless she were certain of being held in the lady's good graces, in which case some restrained banter was exchanged.

"The best indicator about who has the choicest cuts of the day is what's bein' displayed in the windows," Amelia continued sagely. "See there."

She pointed across the street to a small shop with a sign so polished it glinted even though the sun was not particularly fond of this district. The windows likewise gleamed, and the freshly painted trimmings and door notably separated the shop from its more weary-looking neighbours.

"They look respectable enough," Emily said plainly, feeling some sort of comment was required of her.

"Yes," agreed Amelia. "Smart as can be, they are. But look at what's hangin' in the window."

Small, skinned carcasses hung in a neat row.

"Rabbits?"

"Precisely," Amelia said, looking smug.

Emily said nothing, only bestowing upon her companion a puzzled glance that said 'we are not all butcher's daughters.'

"If they had beef fit 'nough to show, it'd be placed to the best vantage of the public, wouldn't?" Amelia concluded sagely.

Emily could find no fault in her servant's logic and inclined her head in concession to Amelia's superiority upon the subject.

"Then which shall we try?" Emily asked. The grey-brown bun bobbed about as Amelia continued to study what the market had to offer. It stilled and then was replaced with the dimpled, smiling face of the keen servant.

"That one," she announced confidently, pointing a ways ahead on their current path.

Emily couldn't be sure, but she surmised that Amelia had been referring to a wooden sign that hung out from the shop, above the heads of the crowd in the street. How the young woman had interpreted the worn old board with barely a flake of paint yet adhering to impart any message, let alone 'butcher' was beyond Emily's comprehension. But she still allowed herself to be led through he chattering, self-engrossed throng towards the shop, saying to her lady's maid upon glimpsing the equally neglected storefront, "It doesn't appear to be hold much promise."

Amelia waved her off.

"Them that's busy playing to their vanity are in want of real work. If you'll take if from, ma'am, these folk will know their trade. May not know the paint end of a brush or chiffon from organza curtains but-"

There was a splatter of red across the greasy, smoky glass of the shop window into which the women had been peering, startling them completely from their conversation. For the briefest of moments, Emily thought it to have originated from within the shop, a careless by-product of the trade. The choking, frantic man collapsing at their feet in convulsions and nearly knocking Amelia to the ground proved otherwise. Blood sprayed everywhere, dousing their skirts and cobblestones alike, as his hand slipped from clutching at his neck, exposing a ghastly wound as he thrashed about.

Amelia, far more composed than one would expect under such circumstances, quickly knelt beside the fallen man as Emily could only stand staring, too shocked to even feel ill. It was but a moment, but by the time she could react, the man had already grown still, the stream of red barely a trickle without the beating heart to drive the flow.

Amelia looked up, wide frightened eyes meeting Emily's.

"Nothing we can do for 'im now, ma'am." she said quietly, her face speckled with blood. The corpse gurgled a fluid-filled death rattle. Emily crouched down and closed the poor man's blank green eyes. She glanced at the sickening wound that had ended his life, but looked no further than the gore before turning away. Knowing he had been a living, breathing person would not be a particularly comfortable consideration at the moment. And she did not want to take his likeness lest she begin to think of him as such.

Had someone killed him in the extremely public place in the middle of the day? She supposed they could've slipped into the crowd undetected. Or as part of the seemingly innocuous crowd, bumped into him, a bit of quick work with a knife and no one the wiser. Except that wound...

Swallowing down the bile forcing its way up her throat, she quickly examined the injury again. Ragged shreds of skin skirted a gaping hole, filled with coagulating blood and exposed red meat, sinew and arteries as well as the white glimpse of bone. It looked as if he'd had his throat ripped out, not sliced by an implement employed by man.

Glancing around, she found that there were unexpectedly few people staring and whispering at the ghastly scene containing a violently mutilated corpse and two unfortunate ladies whose skirts were now doused in blood.

There was a bloodcurdling scream and Emily jumped to her feet. The crowd surged like an ocean swell in response to the outcry. Emily was considered a little tall for a woman -not in an unseemly manner- but even so, she could not see above all the hats floating upon the heads of the mass of people.

Was there a madman loose?

Her heart had quickened a little, but her curiosity had been piqued considerably more. Straining on tiptoe, she still managed to ascertain nothing remotely informative.

_Silly feathered yellow taffeta atrocity!_

If she had been closer, Emily could not deny that she would probably have ripped the awful excuse for millinery from the woman's head, and not only for obstructing her view, but for being such an affront to aesthetic sensibilities.

Well, it seemed there was nothing else for it.

Emily bolstered her resolve, set her thoughts to the days of her early childhood spent roughhousing with her brothers, and threw herself into the fray.

Contrary to what she had prepared herself for, Emily found it not so difficult to make her way through the melee of shoppers-come-spectators. No one was out right attempting to tackle her to the ground and tickle her until she screamed. The bruising bumps and inconsiderate nudges were all unintentional. As was standard with sensational incidents that ripped people from the banality of their lives, there were two conflicting camps of response coming to confluence in the crowd all about her. Those who had been nearer its epicenter were pushing to escape it. Those whose voyeuristic natures had not been satisfied, pressed forward, creating a fray more confusing than those found upon the battlefield.

For a woman who had found a mere venture to purchase meats a great opportunity to escape boredom, the promise of something extraordinary was far too tempting.

Had she lost her faculties entirely? She had just witnessed a man's gruesome death and yet she continued to seek out the source.

There was a deafening bellow that was in no possible way issued by a human throat. The bone-deep, spine-tingling, hair-raising roar seemed to shake the ground as it rooted her feet to the cobblestones. Primal fear coursed through her and her heart leapt into her throat. That monstrous bellow she had never heard the likes of before, not even from the lions she had observed on exhibition, urged her to flee for her pathetic life. It said 'I will eat you.' And even without laying eyes upon its source, Emily knew it to be the most terrifying thing she'd ever encountered.

Then why did she resume to press forward against the seemingly more profoundly outward flow of the crowd?

Perhaps it was because since there was nothing significant in her life, she found that she no longer cared about anything. Perhaps it was because this was the most alive she had felt in what seemed like a century.

Whichever the reason -she'd like to believe it to be stalwart intrepidity- Emily forged a path through the flow of gingham, wool, tweed, taffeta and street grime covered bodies. Bravery -or it might be idiocy- aside, she did not make the mistake of looking into their eyes or faces, certain the fear found held therein would surely turn her back. Likewise, she ignored the desperate pleas of Amelia at her back, which were growing ever fainter with the distance and mass of flesh, clothes, goods and babbling anxiety between them.

Emily slowed at she recognized a gap ahead, like wandering through a wood and recognizing a glade from a dearth in the canopy of the trees. She halted altogether when the crowd was just a few people deep around the edge of the space. There was nothing preventing her from approaching closer except her own shock, and the sense of self-preservation she had apparently been lacking up to this point. For she could finally see the source of all the commotion, the origins of the awesome bellow, and likely the cause of that poor man's untimely, horrendous demise.

It was a bear.

Well, it was a bear in only the same sense that a housecat was a lion. Emily would be the first to admit to being none too worldly, but she thought she had claim to some familiarity with the creatures; enough to say that this was an unusual beast. Much larger than the Siberian specimens she had the pleasure of observing at the same exhibition as the lions, it stood well over the crowd's heads (frippery laden hats included) at the shoulder. She shuddered to imagine the intimidating stature of the monstrous bear if it were to rise up on its two hind legs. And the creature probably outclassed Mr. Cullen's prize Clydesdale in weight. However, the bear's size wasn't the only difference Emily noted as it paced about, causing the ring of spectators to widen as it passed and contract once more behind it. The blood-crusted muzzle was truncated, practically like a pug breed of dog. The massive, dark-furred limbs were more gracile than on the Siberian bears; longer, leaner, elegant in a way which rendered the rest of its bulk to appear awkward.

The great beast continued to pace in a manner that elicited a rather intense ill-ease within Emily, beginning with the raised hairs at the nape of her neck, spreading gooseflesh down her spine, and settling as a seed of dread in the pit of her stomach.

As a girl, she had taken an all too keen interest in sport. It did not rectify matters that her brothers indulged and encouraged such interest by having her along on their hunting exploits. In so doing, they had imparted some wilderness knowledge upon her, however inappropriate it were for a young lady of standing to boast such achievement.

Whatever the questionable source, it had proven useful -doubtless to the chagrin of all her mother's critics over raising such a wild daughter. For Emily recognized a building tension in the great bear, a desperate anxiety that was typical to a trapped beast. Upon the few occasions she had witnessed a cornered predator, the outcome of such anxious pacing had not manifested well. In those cases, its vicious final attempt to free itself by attacking those who had cornered it resulted in the predator's death. In those circumstances, the favour in the conflict had been on the side of man; both in their party's greater numbers and weaponry.

That was not the case here. The persons present in the street easily numbered a hundred, but the bear's obviously powerful mass neutralized such advantage when those numbers were unarmed. Man may be a clever creature, but without his tools, ingenuity could only preserve him for so long. And a group of people were prone to panicky fallacies a single person could remain above. No, they would pose no more threat to this creature than rabbits to its less intimidating -almost banal, now that she had encountered such a magnificent beast- cousins.

And the dumbfounded little rabbits just stood there. Perhaps, it was an insult to rabbits. Those used to lives as perpetual potential prey would've known better. And Emily herself had eagerly sought the source of the commotion, knowing full well the danger from the bellow that terrified to the marrow.

She decided not to be too harsh on herself, as she at least retained the sense to have begun to have slowly back away and search the crowd for someone useful, or a way to warn the others without the standard holler -the only language that could cut through the din of the street. Yelling that everyone should clear out would be the spark that ignited the fury she more than witnessed building in the mass of sinew and muscle of the bear. She sensed the ferocious tension, felt the desperation that practically crackled in the air. Predators were at their most dangerous when removed from their territory, when they found themselves in the unknown, when they felt pushed. Lethally aggressive.

There were disgustingly large gobs of saliva pouring from its mouth, a foam tinted red-orange with blood as it fell to the cobblestones like a putrid rain. And there was a constant, low rumble that reverberated through the air, through the base of her skull and Emily knew the growl to be a sign of an imminent feral rampage the likes of which she'd never dreamed in her worst nightmares.

Despairing to find any assistance, she nonetheless searched the crowd again. There, further up the street. The constabulary had just arrived.

She continued her slow withdrawal, directing her retreat towards the group of uniform and truncheon clad men. Some movement in the crowd, which had stilled over the past few moments, alerted her that others wise to the ways of feral creatures were likewise abandoning the spectacle. Their limited experience would do little to resolve the impending situation, Emily concluded, realizing that aware though she was of the threat, there was nothing she could do herself to prevent its culmination.

Emily wondered if any more were true of those charged with keeping the peace. The most feral creatures the flatfoots had likely dealt with were probably moderately hungry domesticated dogs cast aside by their owners.

As if to prove her point, there was a convulsing of the crowd off to Emily's right, where a significant mass of people had converged in the intersection of the streets. With much shuffling, grumbles and the sound of a strong, authoritarian voice, an imposing figure in uniform and helmet was spat into the opening. Even from over a hundred yards askance, his flame colored mutton chops and full mustache blazed. Emily briefly wondered if the profuse amounts of neatly kempt facial hair was to compensate for a dearth upon his crown, but there was no confirming such assumptions with the obfuscation of the precisely perched helmet. It was doubtful any dearth would affect the man's apparent self-assuredness. He stood, all hard, crisp lines in front of a comparably slovenly mass of casual bystanders. He was the law. And the truncheon he held in one hand and slapped into the open palm of the other was _order_.

If the giant pacing, slathering bear had disturbed the constable -more likely a sergeant, judging by his air of confidence- it did not show.

"All right, people..." The man had a booming voice that projected throughout the open space of the intersection. The announcement reverberated off the buildings as if they were the strategically placed walls of a theatre that's primary purpose was to acoustically benefit its lead actor, the consta-_sergeant_.

"Everyone clear out. Nothin' to see 'ere. An' whoever's responsible for the beastie better 'ave 'im packed away and off'n my streets within the hour."

Emily attempted to close her eyes. Desperately, she begged her body to obey. But the only thing more horrifying than watching events unfold would be to _not_ witness them, to not be able to say where the danger precisely was, to be in the dark with a monster. Instinct _forced_ her to watch.

The bear had stopped pacing and turned to face the oblivious sergeant stood across the wide open space from it. The tension visibly built in the large mass of muscles of the creature's shoulders. Emily tried to cry out, to warn the man to extricate himself from the lethal situation. Unfortunately, her voice was even less inclined to obey than her eyes. She could only stand in shock as the bear, well, pounced, attacking like some large cat rather than behaving like its ursine cousins.

And closer to the manner of a wolf, it went for the sergeant's throat with a roar that curdled blood. The man had no time to react, the bear's movement was so swift. Its jaws were so massive that instead of latching onto his throat, the flame of mustache and muttonchops alike disappeared into the bear's gaping maw. The helmet went bouncing across the ground with a hollow clattering.

Shocked silence descended upon the crowd. One could hear a pin drop. Or as it were, the sickening crunch and pop of bone, an agonized scream and then simply the noises of the bear worrying the lifeless body. It hit the cobblestones with a thump and splash of blood. And all hell broke loose.

People screamed and scattered. The bear charged the crowd, which parted anxiously to allow the mad creature passage. However, the terror of witnessing the sergeant's death was not quite enough to cause everyone to run for the hills. The voyeuristic crowd closed behind the bear. Those on the far side of the street even hurried after the rampaging scene of carnage. Bellows, screams, the sound of splintering wood and destruction followed the bear.

Emily paused, having found herself to have walked out into the middle of the intersection to peer down the street after the bear and mass of spectators. Fascinated in a sickening sort of way, she almost followed, when a glittering play of light on a nearby overturned cart caught the corner of her eye. It did not seem likely to be a reflection from sunlight absent from this street.

Furrowing her brow she searched for its source, following it down the street opposite to the one down which the bear had fled. Her jaw dropped when she laid eyes upon the sparkling, ethereal light floating in the air.

Was it a spirit?

No. No, Emily was somehow certain it possessed no sentience. It was more like being stood before a rainbow, or a cloud, something inanimate but wondrously extraordinary up close. Actually, it looked somewhat like a shattered mirror, only translucent. She reached a shaking hand out slowly towards the shining shard of light, flinching in case it might cut her. Only a tingling feeling told her fingers it was there and not just a conjuring of her mind.

A significantly audible scream made her jump. While the ruckus had been distant, it had settled out of her thoughts, obscured by the strange light. But it was getting closer to her location. She whirled around to see people running in the manner that was beyond thought. She could see the rampaging tons of bear not far behind them.

And between Emily and the crazed beast was stood a small boy, apparently frozen in place with shock. She ran to the boy, sloppily scooping him up in her arms and sprinted in the opposite direction, swearing that she could feel the bear's breath rustling her hair. Closing her eyes tight for a moment, she prepared herself for the tingling sensation as she passed through the ethereal light.

It passed in a moment, and had she been a little less frantic, maybe she would've noticed the change in the air, the ground beneath her feet, the feel of the sun on her face. As it were, it took her reopening her eyes to find a way out of the bear's path to realize she was no longer running down the cobblestone street.

She turned around to see the truncated snout of the bear in the heart of the glittering light before the shards throbbed, expanded and disappeared. She sighed in relief, setting the boy on the ground but keeping a small hand in hers. She whirled about, taking in the scene around her. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun warm and yellow. There was a vast white expanse in the distance, a wooded area to her left. And green rolling plains spread out before her, populated by grasses that rose past her knees.

They were stood on a knoll. And it was _they_. There were others, about a dozen who had passed through that ethereal light, that _gateway_, that gateway that had closed behind her.

One of them, a slightly unkempt man with wild, dark hair approached her. The little boy squeezed her hand and looked up at her with wide eyes. She gave him a reassuring smile before turning to the approaching man.

"They call me Ethan," he said, offering his right hand in the manner employed by her father and his business partners. There was no reason to be rude, so she took it and shook it firmly as she had seen her father do.

"Lady Emily Merchant," she said. He seemed to tense at her title, and there was something in his eyes she did not care for. But she could not fault his oddly happy smile, for she felt a similar one contorting her face.

"Looks like we're stuck here," he said, gesturing to the world most definitely not their own.

Emily smiled even broader.

She had well and truly escaped.

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter is already written…actually finished long before this bit, so only needs another edit before posting, that is if anyone's interested…**

**A/N2: This chapter featured _Artodus simus_, the pliestocene age short-nosed bear.  
**


	6. The End of Everything and His Beginning

**Author's Note: So, yeah… I seem to waver between violence and angsty mush… Guess what this bit contains? ;-)**

**Name reference in last chapter: 'Amelia' actually did just pop into my head when naming. Although, it probably did because of Doctor Who. :-) However, I was referring to naming the Merchant's estate **_**Woodlawn**_** (see **_**Live Free or Die Hard **_**for reference -it always sounded like a place in an Austen novel to me, not somewhere for McClane to kick ass, but not really sure why…)**

**Anyway, on with it...  
**

* * *

_2011..._

"Emily, wait," Matt said softly.

She stopped midway through fastening her flak vest and frowned slightly. It wasn't as if she thought his friends posed a threat to her. She hoped he did not believe that was what caused her to adorn the body armour. It was simply instinct at this point that found her slipping into the protective garment.

She shrugged off the heavy vest when she looked at him. He appeared to be deep in thought, contemplating the warnings she had issued and the information with which she had inundated him. It would have been entirely daft of her to believe that her mere presence -contrary to what he had held as reality not a few minutes prior, that she no longer resided in his world- had not unsettled his mind altogether.

"If what you say is true..." he said, turning piercing blue eyes upon her person.

"It is." She produced a small stick from, well, where she had tucked it into her corset. There was little fear of losing the precious device when it was tucked into her unmentionables, held firmly in place between her bosom and the rigid fabric of her corset. "I have evidence."

"Good." Matt nodded his head. Obviously, he recognized the wondrous little contraption for what it was, some sort of storage device for various documentation. "But if Philip Burton is responsible for all of this, the ARC is not a safe place to make the necessary decisions."

Emily gave him a look filled with consternation.

"I thought you had come to trust your team," she said.

"I do. Technology doesn't have any particular loyalties, though. The entire building is wired with surveillance. Surveillance which Burton has access to."

"He will know what is said there?" Emily begged confirmation, trying to understand. She had learned so much, tried so hard to understand subjects that had not even resided in their infancy during her time. And generally, she was quite capable of comprehension, although it might take her some time more than those born to it. If she recalled, it was not only sounds that the technology could capture. It also relayed images. "He will know _who_ is present there."

"He cannot know I went to you," she said forcefully, locking eyes with the man she had traversed epochs to find again.

Matt furrowed his brow and gave her a bemused look. He did not understand. As far as he knew, Philip Burton was barely aware of her existence. He could not know what had transpired upon her return, for she had not yet told him, despite his insistence. And it was just the end of too long a tale, one too full of pain, one she was not quite prepared to revisit.

Thus, she instead chose to summarize her account.

"The gateway that allowed me to return to this time. It was one contrived of his scientist's making. He is aware of my presence in this era. He must believe at the least that I am now familiar with the experimentation he is carrying out. If he sees me with you and the others, he will anticipate any action we take against him. And he doubtless will be well prepared to receive us."

When she sought to read his expression once more, she found the determination in his eyes, the very same determination that had persuaded him to send her away all those -_earlier that day_. It was a nobility she could respect. However, she also feared that his solitary approach to such responsibility would be his undoing.

"You cannot do this alone."

His posture stiffened, became more intimidating as his eyes bore into hers. However, upon this matter, she would not yield. She had done so before, and regretted it with every breath since her submission to his will. Maybe -but she would not outright admit it to anyone- she would've been a liability before, just another concern to add to his burden, a distraction that could deter him from his objective, or worse, cause him to be killed.

That was not the case anymore. She was heartily assured of the fact of her ability to not only manage her own self but to assist others as well. Had she not already brought him the answer for which he had been searching all his life, the solution and salvation of the future?

There was no doubt. She could only aide him in his cause.

She stood taller, firmer, and returned his searing gaze. His eyes had darkened and were so disturbingly beautiful that a chill shuddered along her spine. Never had an exchange so intense persisted for so long before. That was, none that had involved her person. None that she had been witness to, either, for that matter. Manners had only ever required the briefest of direct eye contact. In most cases, it was considered too intimate an exchange for practically all levels of acquaintanceship. This encounter, in point of fact, far more resembled the meeting of two wild creatures, their attempt to ascertain the strength and potential threat of the other.

An assertion of dominance.

Emily had stared down many a creature that had she shown the slightest sign of weakness would not hesitate to rip her to pieces and have her for dinner. Physically, she knew Matt would never harm her. Emotionally, he had already committed the worst atrocity he could have done -rejecting her. At the time she had understood his reasons. And she still did think that he believed the justification he had given her was his sole purpose in sending her away. Yet now, she could not help but wonder if there was not more to his rejection of her than what he claimed. For she had grown closer to comprehending his heart than she ever would have had she remained in his company. He thought he needed to continue alone. The truth was apparent to her, that he most decidedly did_ not_.

Had Matt yet glimpsed the heart of her? It seemed his eyes had scoured her very soul, laid her entire being bare to him. The exchange unnerved her to the core, but she refused to yield first.

Seemingly satisfied of some notion unbeknownst to her, Matt looked away. Emily released the breath she had not realized herself to be holding. It seemed an eternity had been spent in the depths of the man's eyes, yet she could easily believe it had scarce been a couple of minutes. An uncomfortable amount of time to spend gazing into another's soul in any circumstances, let alone the tense confrontation of two individuals plagued by their own personal demons.

He pulled a small piece of technology from his pocket... a 'mobile' if she recalled the appropriate term for the communication device. Who was...?

"We'll need Jess' help to get into the ARC undetected," he said before bringing the device up to his ear.

The conversation was quite the odd listening experience for the absence of the young woman's responses. Emily tried to follow, but could only determine that Matt was not speaking plainly. Did he fear that Burton's people would know the private exchange, as well?

_Jess, It's Matt._

_Well, you know that _project_ you were helping me with?_

_Things have changed. I _do _need your help._

_Can you meet me at my flat when you finish up at the ARC?_

_You're the best, Jess. Thanks._

He had paced about as he spoke, but having finished his conversation, he made his way into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, "Can I fix you some tea?"

"That would be lovely," Emily replied, taking up a seat opposite the counter. An easy silence fell between them as he set about preparing her refreshment. Within a few minutes, he was placing a steaming mug of that marvelous elixir for which she had pined severely.

How long had it been since her last cup of tea?

Reverently, she picked the cup up in both hands, raising it to her lips and blowing on the hot liquid before hazarding the smallest of sips. She closed her eyes and sighed as the soothing nectar flowed over her tongue.

_Heaven._

Opening her eyes, Emily found Matt to be studying her with an appreciative smile on his face.

"I understand taking my old surface clothes-I'm actually surprised they hadn't been claimed already," Matt said, leaning over the countertop. His face was so close that she could reach out and stroke his stubble-laden cheek if she wanted. Oh, how she wanted to do so. But it wouldn't do. So instead, she gripped the cup of tea for all she was worth and battled the urge to touch the man.

"But why the shirt?"

Curious amusement lit his face. Emily looked away, feeling the blush rise in her cheek. Avoiding his gaze, she studied the contents of the plain porcelain cup, recalling the moment her heart had truly broken...

_It had been merely by accident. Well, not accident. Ever since she found that plain where the gateways were clustered like flies, she'd been hoping to find this place. In truth, from the moment she had stepped through that first gateway, left her own time once more, she had been primarily searching for a way back to him. But discovering this place had been better. It held the potential of allowing her to _help_ him._

_Almost instantly, she knew this was the future from which Matt Anderson had originated. It did not remotely resemble any other time she had visited. The air was toxic. She would've died if they hadn't found her, taken her below. The most disturbing part hadn't been the barren, nightmarish surface, the claustrophobia-inducing underground complex, or even the pervasive sense of despair amongst the people residing there. _

_It was what she had discovered within that small, sad room._

_They had preserved his belongings, like some manner of shrine. They had done for all those who had taken up the mantle of time traveling saviour. And she knew the reason for the uncharacteristic act of preservation when every resource was a commodity not to be wasted. They were desperately clinging to what little hope was granted them. _

_At least, his people had not abandoned those they had sent away. The hope was not entirely unfounded. For they scrounged every crumb of information from the past, painstakingly reconstructing a history and an event of which they held no real knowledge. It had shocked her more than finding herself in this place when the strange little man in charge of the impossible task had addressed her by name._

_They'd had a couple decades to continue their research since Matt and the others had been deployed into the past. And it was not an unfruitful period. Their adepts had found documentation from the Anomaly Research Center, with especial attention paid to reconstructing reports filed by one particular man. And amongst those reports must have resided the tale of Emily's adventure into the 21st century, her likeness apparently given in detail._

_Space was something of a dearth within the complex beneath the ground. The wizened historian had smiled at Emily and with a wink, had said, "I think we have just the room for you."_

_And then the little old man had proceeded to lead her from the more structured hall and outward, down corridors whose paths were tortuous at best, labyrinthine at worst. Gradually, their state of repair had diminished until they were walking over rough dirt floors surrounded by walls and ceilings hewn from the earth, lit sparsely with strangely glowing lamps. Periodically, the path would widen, and miscellany that could pass for furnishings had marked some sort of living space._

_After about twenty or so minutes in which Emily had begun to feel significantly like Alice* down the rabbit hole, the crooked, aged man had entered one of the living spaces, stopping before a metal door that had not been taken into account when the frame was hewn from the surrounding earth._

_"This was young Matthew Anderson's room," he had announced with a crooked smile that nearly matched the curve to his spine. He had given her a look that she was quite sure she hadn't a notion as to the meaning of it. And then, with a harsh rap of his gnarled knuckles, the metal door had sprung open, swinging inward with a protestation of hinges that cut through her head like a knife. Apparently, no one had entered this room for quite some time. At least, not with any manner of consistency._

_Emily had peered curiously into the dark depths of the place. The room had resembled a cupboard in size more than anything else. From the faint light filtering in round her, she had been able to discern its contents as a small cot with table and lamp to the side and a trunk at its foot. The narrow bed was made up in an expectant manner, though surely they never expected his return. And there was nothing else. Nothing on the dark, earthen walls. Nothing on the bare floor. Nothing besides the lamp was sat upon the table. Nothing but bedclothes covered the cot._

_She had turned to ask of her guide whether she was meant to sleep here, but she had found that she was alone. That curious old gentleman was much more able than he had appeared._

_With a steadying breath, she had entered the crypt-like room, shuddering over the memory of her last mausoleum experience. Matt had been there to free her from the suffocating, nearly fatal entombment. He had comforted her then..._

_His presence must reside in this place as well. An imprint. A shadow. She had need only discover it. Thus, after fiddling about with the lamp and illuminating the space, she had decided to try the plain metal trunk before which she was presently knelt._

_The trunk had once been olive green in colour, but was now more a dark mottled gray comprised of patina and flaking paint. She undid the latch and hesitated. Haltingly, she placed trembling hands upon the lid. It was the closest she had been to him in what felt like an age._

_Really, she was being rather ridiculous. And probably had gone mad. However, that did not change the fact of the matter, that finding him had been her primary, her _only_ focus since she had fled her native time once more. The aspiration to see him again bestowed more purpose upon her existence than mere survival. If she were not cautious, not careful to reign in her feelings, however, the infatuation would doubtless best her._

_Rightly calling herself silly, she lifted the lid of the trunk which groaned in reluctance to reveal its contents. She swallowed back tears. Not because there was anything particularly heinous. Or shocking in any form. It simply made her sad, for she knew the meager contents to compose the entirety of his possessions._

_The austere appearance of his home in the 21st century was not a conscious choice. It was a result of who he was. He had not thought to live any other way than the simple manner in which he had always done. _

_Possessions were most decidedly not everything that mattered in the world. In fact, Emily found that she had developed a particular distaste for material wealth. Her husband's home, the Merchant family estate, was cluttered beyond reason. Then again, they were not her family's possessions and had held no significant meaning to her, happy or otherwise. Though that wasn't to say there was nothing more to material possessions than displays of avarice and wealth. They accumulated as a consequence of living, reflections of loved ones, experiences, memories, the physical debris resultant of a life _lived_. What she found in this room was an _empty_ life._

_And her heart broke._

_There was a soft-bound book lying in the mostly barren trunk. Gingerly picking it up, she perused the yellowing pages. Notes, studies, timelines, scientific and mathematical formulae... What was held in her hands was a student's journal. But where were the superfluous drawings of a wandering mind? The diversions entertained by the student inevitably bored no matter the intensity of their focus? Where was the evidence of the child that became the man?_

_Carefully, she replaced the journal from where she had plucked it. Besides the book, there were only a few items of clothing. Not a toy. Not a trinket. Nor keepsake from his youth. And somehow she was certain the reason was not absence of mind or utter lack of sentimentality. It had never existed. _

_Even the lowest street urchin kept some object of significance, a mere bobble they claimed as their own, a precious possession when they had as little as a person ever could. It was a manner of preserving their individuality, a means of exercising some modicum of power over their pathetically unstable lives. Of course, in order to do so, one had to recognize their life as something, possibly, the only thing a person truly possessed. _

_Matt's entire existence was for one purpose only, and probably had been so since he was a small child. Perhaps the decision had been made on his behalf prior even to his birth. Duty and responsibility was all he'd ever known. To be told -more than that- to _believe _that your life was not yours to do with as you pleased, that it was simply a means to secure the happiness of others... Emily knew this feeling all too well._

_However, she at least had enjoyed a childhood. And a happy one, at that. The greatest mystery to the man was not his secretive life's endeavour to save the future. Rather she would vehemently argue that the puzzle of Matt Anderson was how he had developed into the compassionate and somewhat playful man she admired whilst under such insurmountable pressure._

_Emily sighed._

_Her preoccupation was quite uncalled for. She had known him for such a short time. Yet she missed him dearly. The shirt he had not noticed she'd purloined had all too quickly lost its primary appeal. Likely due to its continual employment as her nightdress upon her return to her own time. Running her hands over the neatly folded clothes -a great coat and trousers of some odd material, a denim pair like the ones she had borrowed, and a button down shirt comprised the total- she wondered if..._

_Gently pulling the well-worn shirt from the pile as not to disturb the orderly fashion of the rest, Emily scrutinized it. Obviously, it had last been adorned by the man when he barely could be called so. It would not have comfortably fit the more developed frame of the Matt she had known. _

_It probably wouldn't be the same, but she brought the garment to her face and took in an experimental breath. The heady aroma of earth, pervasive throughout the underground complex, filled her nose, causing it to twitch. Also detectable was the ever present metallic tinge of the toxic surface atmosphere. The bitter odour, however, did not prevent her from detecting the scent for which she was searching._

Matt.

_It had resided amongst the smell of laundered linen in his bed, lulling her to sleep when she had resided in his home. And more pronounced, she had been encompassed by its presence along with the smell of his leather jacket and soap when he had hugged her close, consoling her frantic sobs upon nearly being left to suffocate. And when they had said goodbye…_

_The distinct scent of his skin filled her as she buried her face more deeply in the fabric. A contented sigh escaped her lips as she allowed herself to be lulled by the familiar comfort. The weariness and pain ebbed away from her bones._

_"You were close to my son."_

_There was an Irish lilt to the words that cut through Emily's indulgent reverie, startling her. Hastily, she tossed the shirt back into the trunk, looking about with wide eyes to locate the intruder upon her embarrassingly private moment._

_There was an older woman stood just inside the doorway. She was not very tall, but owned every single inch she did possess. Her appearance was more healthsome than numerous women of half her years. That was not to say she looked young, however. There were dark shadows and lines in her face that bespoke a hard life. Her hair was once brown, but now had given itself over to the silver swathes that shone in the odd lamplight. The straight locks were swept away from her face and bound in a sole plait resting upon one shoulder; a fashion not unlike how Emily kept her own dark brown curls. Sinewy arms were crossed before her chest and her posture was confident erring on aggressive. _

_Swallowing nervously, Emily rose to her feet to greet the lady. When her gaze met that of the stern figure, it was only by pure force of will that she did not cry out in surprise. Her heart leapt into her throat, however, upon meeting an all too familiar piercing cerulean gaze. Even if the woman had not been so blunt, there was no mistaking who she was, whose mother she was._

_Emily fought to compose herself, holding out her hand in the manner she had learned was customary throughout various human times._

_"Mrs. Anderson," she said politely. The woman bowed her head almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement as she took her hand and shook it brusquely. The appraising blue eyes never wavered from Emily's face. "I'm-"_

_"Mrs. John Merchant," the older woman finished. Emily winced. Could there be any more shameful an introduction than the mother of the man whose shirt she was caught caressing referring to her by the name of the husband she had abandoned? If there was one, she had certainly not experienced it. _

_"Please do call me Emily," she offered desperately._

_"Moira."_

_No further explanation was offered, but Emily determined that must be Mrs. Anderson's given name and that by its proffering, she was permitted to use the informal address. She tried to smile in a friendly manner, but the gesture was apparently lost on the stoic woman who only revisited her preliminary thought upon the subject of Emily._

_"You were with my son," Moira Anderson said._

_Why did this feel so much like her first interview with Lady Merchant upon consideration of her forming an attachment with John? Never before or since had she been under such scrutiny, and it agitated her nerves more than staring down lethal beasts ten times her size. And how precisely was Emily meant to take Mrs. Anderson's meaning at such a comment?_

_"Matt and I... We..." She floundered to find words equal to the task of expressing what exactly had passed between this woman's son and herself. Frankly, she had no notion as to the nature of the relationship that never quite began, let alone words._

_With a nod of her head, Moira drew Emily's attention to where the old metal trunk lay open, the white fabric of the much-coveted and hastily discarded shirt spilling over its edge._

_"Only a lover enjoys a man's shirt that much," she said, returning her intense gaze to Emily's face, who promptly turned away. The heat blazed over her skin like wildfire, and Emily knew the blush colouring her face and neck to be severe._

_"It was not at all like that!" She protested before she could reign in her defensive reaction. When her wide eyes fell to the older woman's face in a desperate attempt to ascertain her opinion, Emily was shocked to find a sparkle in the dark blue depths. There was an amused smile curving Moira Anderson's lips as well. The woman had been teasing her!_

_At least, now she knew from where Matt's playful side had originated..._

_"But you knew him," Moira reiterated. Emily softened a bit, realizing her mistake. She had mistook the woman's manner for a harsh scrutiny. The sadness and despair had gone undetected for the terse, hard facade and Emily's defensive reaction to being caught in a weak personal moment. _

_"For a brief time, we were acquainted," Emily said, smiling bittersweetly._

_Moira Anderson moved to sit upon the bed, motioning for Emily to do likewise. When she was sat beside her, the somber mother said quietly, "Tell me about Matthew."_

_What words, what stories or anecdotes could she possible say that would ease the pain of this woman to have been separated from her family? _

_All she could offer was what she had learned of the man in the time she'd known him. For such a brief period of acquaintance, it should have been very little. Yet she felt she had become acquainted with the very heart of him to develop such feelings. But feelings that confused her were hardly an appropriate revelation to impart under the circumstances. _

_Emily settled on facts._

_"He's a good man. _

"_When we first met, he attempted to save my life even though it was in no need of saving." Emily took a deep breath, continuing onto the next recollection. It wasn't a memory she particularly liked, being shut in that tomb by Ethan. "And then he really did save my life."_

_Moira smiled gratefully and asked, "You were close, though, weren't you?"_

_"I would very much like to think he'd call me a friend," Emily replied, slightly confused. How did she know they were more than just two people who had existed in the same place and time for a short period? Surely, Matt would not have penned such personal details in his reports, for their exchanges had included secrets he'd confessed to no one besides herself._

_"How...?" she inquired of Mrs. Anderson, who delved into a pocket of the fatigue vest she adorned and produced a photograph. It had once been in colour, but was faded and worn. The figures it contained, however, were unmistakable. Emily had plucked it from the woman's fingers before she even realized what she was doing. _

_When had the still been taken? She could not recall a photographer's equipment anywhere._

_"Oh, sorry," Emily apologized to Mrs. Anderson, finally realizing her utterly inconsiderate act. "May I?"_

_The gray-haired woman smiled and nodded._

_The photograph was from the day of Jenny Lewis' wedding. Apparently it had been taken without their knowledge, capturing her mostly in profile. It was a rather good likeness of Matt, however, and Emily found herself studying his face in a longing sort of way. He was giving her that particular look of his that stirred her in unexpected ways. And then the pain of the moment following the one captured in her hand resurfaced. This photograph was taken just before he found out she was married, before he had become hurt and distant._

_Forcing a smile to hide the bad memory that resided mingled amongst the good ones, Emily returned the obviously cherished photograph to its owner. Moira Anderson pinned her with an intense, desperate gaze as she took the beloved, and likely only physical, connection she had to her long lost son. _

_"How was he?" she asked. Emily knew the answer for which the woman was despairing. The mother wanted nothing more in the entire world to know her son was happy. To give her such news would've been Emily's greatest wish, but she could not lie to her no matter the anxiety it would have eased._

_Steeling herself, Emily met Moira's eyes. _

_"He would never say so. I do not believe he even realizes," Emily prefaced, taking a deep breath. "But he's lonely."_

_Moira looked down at the photograph, nodding in acceptance of the revelation that couldn't have been that much of a shock. _

_"I think not so much when you were with him," she said quietly. There was a lengthy silence that wasn't awkward, but Emily was glad that the older woman did not look at her for the blush that had coloured her pale cheeks once more. _

_"Are you trying to return to him?" Moira asked after she tucked the photograph away, pinning Emily with a piercing blue gaze. Like her son, the woman was uncannily adept at reading her. _

_"Yes," Emily conceded, a little ashamed for the exposure of her ridiculously unfounded feelings. _

_"Would you help him, if you could?" _

_"Of course!" So much for maintaining some composure…_

_The older woman seemed satisfied of Emily's sincerity and in a surprising gesture, took her hand in hers and squeezed it._

_"The Council decided that no more would be sent back," she said. "Our numbers are too low. No one can be spared."_

_Emily nodded, unsure of the purpose of the information being imparted._

_"But we've since found information that would be of great use to Matthew in his task," she continued. "You're an Other Timer. You will be given the offer to be sent back to wherever you wish."_

_Realization dawned upon Emily and her eyes grew wider._

_"I _suggest_ that you wish to return to 2011."_

_"Is that possible?" Emily asked._

_"The anomalies nearby are catalogued extensively. There is one we believe to open to a few days prior to the date we have determined to be the cataclysmic event."_

_"Then we must hurry," Emily said, jumping to her feet._

_Moira caught her arm gently, and said, "It's not presently open. But it seems to fluctuate every day or so."_

_Emily's heart was pounding so very hard and she wasn't so sure she would recover until she passed through that gateway. _

_"We have time to prepare you," Moira said, rising to her feet and heading for the door. She stopped to face Emily before she left, adding "And you won't survive the environment up top in those. Try Matt's old surface things."_

_With that the door shut behind her, and Emily was left alone to ponder all that had passed. Perhaps a bit too happily she exchanged the military clothes, of which she did not wish to ever recall her acquisition, for the strange trousers and great coat. She hesitated briefly, but adorned the old button-down shirt as well._

_Odd, how within less than an hour, her heart had both broken and had also received the greatest reason to hope in years..._

"Emily?"

A hand rested gently upon her forearm, rousing her from her reverie. She looked up at the man most central to her thoughts. There was concern in his features, but mostly amusement.

"Oh. I beg your pardon," Emily apologized.

"You looked like you were miles away," he said. "You all right?"

She nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. Appeased, he turned to prepare the toast and jam to accompany her cup of tea.

"I spoke with your mother," she blurted out. It was something she had intended to tell him, just not so soon, not until after all the insanity was over and they could have a calm, collected conversation.

The knife stopped mid-spread, red preserves dripping off from the edge of the blade. Slowly it came to rest on the edge of the plate, and Matt turned to look at her with the saddest eyes she'd ever encountered bar a very similar pair belonging to an older woman. There were questions in his forlorn gaze, on his lips, but he seemed at a loss for words.

"She's a remarkable woman." Emily said. Obviously anxious to hear what news she had to give, he moved closer to her, his eyes never wavering from her face. "So much strength…" _To have sent her family away like that. _"She misses you."

Matt nodded silently, looking away.

"Thank you," he said quietly, hoarsely, before returning his gaze to her. There was something else in the intensity of the look he had trained upon her, as he leaned over the counter and his eyes caught hers and held them.

"Emily, I-"

His mobile went off, startling the both of them from the intense moment that had caused her heart to quicken and her breath to catch in her throat.

Standing, he pulled the device from his pocket and looked at it.

"Jess and Abby are here."

He disappeared to allow them entrance into his apartments, leaving Emily to release the breath from her chest in a long, shuddering sigh.

What precisely had Matt been about to say to her?

* * *

***Emily probably wouldn't have compared herself to Alice, since Lewis Carroll's work was published in 1865 and she would likely be unaware of its existence, let alone refer to it.**

**A/N: Some Lester POV up next I think, just to mix things up… Don't worry, we'll find out what happened/happens to Connor soon, and etc.**


	7. It Never Ends

**Author's note: This shouldn't have taken me so long, but have been busy with other whatnot. Not sure how this turned out, since it's mainly exposition, which I'm not so good at. And it's Lester, whom I adore, but is a tricky balance keeping him brilliantly witty and sarcastic without lowering him to being vindictive and annoying (so well executed in the series).**

* * *

_Two hours later..._

There was a rap on the door, and James Lester looked up from the report he'd been perusing to see a motley crew of employees file into his office, like schoolchildren reporting to the headmaster. Correction. Like schoolchildren bothering an adult with some incoherent whinging. At least, he assumed it to be the case from the look on Jessica's face. The last time he'd seen someone so determined to chew a hole through their bottom lip, there had been some serious tattling going on.

Behind her, Abby followed, looking far more grave than was the young woman's nature, even when her precious prehistoric pets were concerned. Matt was a bit of a surprise. Somehow, Lester had managed to find a man with the same streak of independence as Cutter or Quinn. Yet for the most part, the maverick in Mr. Anderson seemed to be buried under a bit more decorum. He hadn't expected him to be in the parade of complainants into his office.

He had decided to treat them as he did all annoying employees lodging petty grievances, by ignoring them and returning to reading the report he'd been in the midst of labouring through. Unfortunately, he caught the last person to enter his office in the corner of his eye.

Lady Emily Merchant.

Odd that, considering the sentence he'd been interrupted from had begun to say, if he were any good at predicting spoilers (which he was), that she had returned to her own time. Something that he had also been informed of early that day by both Jess and Matt.

"There's a complaint box in the canteen. Please remember all grievances must be filled out on the appropriate forms and shall take 2 to 10 weeks for processing," Lester said without looking up.

Others would simply be pretending to read reports at this point. But he hadn't gotten where he was by only having the capacity to tackle one task at a time. He finished the report, all the while keenly aware of the protestations of his people that they were not there to complain, and the subsequent extreme tension building over the 20 second period of silence. He signed off on the report, despite the presence of the woman who it claimed had gone. This whole ordeal would inevitably mandate another, entirely new report. Oh, joy of joys.

He placed the papers neatly in his outbox, sat up straight in his chair, fixed his tie and glancing around the room, ascertained the instigator of this little unwelcome soiree. Matt stood firm under his harsh gaze.

"What's the meaning of this late night social call? Did you get kicked out of the pub before last orders?" Lester asked. "Because despite what Jess may have led you to believe, there is not a minibar in my desk. Although Lord knows you people could drive one to drink."

Jess opened her mouth to protest the insult but he cut her off with the raise of a hand before he turned to the oddly dressed Victorian woman.

"And you. Didn't you go back to your own time? What is it? The 19th century no longer good enough for you? Lacking amenities like running water and electricity? Well, can't blame you there."

Lady Merchant looked slightly taken aback by his verbal assault. And Lester felt brief remorse -but only brief- over being so harsh. But this was supposed to be quiet time at the ARC. After all the naughty, noisy children left and the playground was empty, silent, peaceful. This was his meditative time. And they had interrupted it.

Looking more agitated than usual, and perhaps even a bit angry, Matt glared and appeared as if he might be about to say something.

Better to obviate the need for this whole conversation.

"I already said she could stay. Just hope that she doesn't change her mind again. It's getting to be a bloody awful lot of paperwork. And I wash my hands of it."

"Mind you, she'd likely have a bit of a wait for the next anomaly to the Victorian era." But if the anomaly closed behind her as Matt and Jess had said and she was standing here now, then... "How did Mrs. Merchant get back here?"

"If you'd just shut up and listen for ten seconds, that's what we're trying to tell you," Jess said.

They all stared dumbfounded at the young woman for her uncharacteristic outburst. She worried her lower lip in the worst way, shrinking slightly.

"Sorry," she said. "It's just we don't have much time. I've disabled the surveillance on a rolling blackout that should appear to be a glitch, but it won't last more than twenty minutes."

"Why would you do that?" Lester asked.

"I asked her to," Matt said. Perhaps a good enough reason for Jess, but Lester was curious as to just exactly when he had stopped being the head man -er, person- around the place. He sighed. Upon proper review, he knew he'd find that he'd been labouring all these years under the false notion that he actually held some control over his employees.

"So, what precisely is going on here?"

"We have to prevent Philip Burton from destroying life as you know it," Matt said.

_Melodrama, our name be Matt Anderson._

Lester bit back any number of sardonic retorts searing his tongue. For all their eccentricities and tendencies to aggravate, he trusted his people. And if whatever was going on was enough to sway the pragmatic man to the uncharacteristically dramatic overstatement, there was trouble.

Instead, Lester only permitted enough frustration to show through as to lend a warning tone to his voice.

"Can someone please speak plainly? You _are_ capable of communication on a level beyond that which belongs in a David Lynch drama?"

"Whatever Philip's researching at Prospero's facilities goes wrong," Matt said. Apparently the man was inured to Lester's sarcastic wit. "It causes a cataclysmic reaction that extinguishes all life on the planet."

Matt glanced at Abby.

"We believe Connor predicted this event and went to Philip, not knowing he's responsible for it."

"And they nabbed him, to keep him quiet," Abby said. Her voice was all fire and passion. What he had mistaken for solemnity on her part was in actuality her desperate attempt to keep her anger at bay.

He looked back at Matt, who held his eyes with determined blue ones.

He surveyed the maddeningly peppy young woman who -though he'd never openly admit- basically ran the ARC. Jessica was an emotionally open person. It was blatant she believed what the others said. Lester could see that it terrified her.

Lady Merchant, he hardly knew. And what he had known no longer seemed to apply to the much more hardened woman standing closely behind where Matt was sat, hand resting upon his shoulder -_damn_. So that was the cause for her involvement in this. She could have returned to her time, lived out her days in relative comfort. Whatever happened a hundred years after she'd grown old and died was no concern of hers. Except, she had made it so. Lester only need glance at her pretty yet determined face to confirm his suspicions about her motives.

Okay. So they were all on the same page. And they all believed it was the truth. And maybe Lester had never really cared for Philip Burton -neither the man, nor his ambition. However,

"I do hope you have proof to back these allegations."

Matt looked to Emily, whose hand slipped from his shoulder to undo the top button of her shirt. _Oh dear lord._ Lester averted his gaze as her hand disappeared beneath the fabric. When he hazarded to look again, he found she had produced a thumb drive from her unmentionables and was handing it off to Jess. The computer savvy young woman promptly produced a small laptop, setting it up before him by sweeping away his already open and employed one.

"And just what was wrong with mine?" Lester asked.

Jess gave him a condescending look. As if _he _were the childish one amongst all present.

"It's not secure," she said whilst sticking the drive into a port and opening the contents. "This one isn't networked."

Was she going to read it aloud to him, too? He shooed her away.

"I'm not completely incompetent."

Lester perused the contents. Reconstructed files, reports from the news media, the government... the ARC. Interesting. Or not. Some research papers heavy in technobabble and scientific jargon. Ah, an elocution he recognized. Unlike some of the other blathering, grammatical atrocities against coherent thought, an eloquent and concise report that could only be penned by one man -_himself_. He had just reached a particularly elegant turn of phrase when he was quite rudely interrupted.

"Well?"

It was Abby's impatient tongue that broke his admiring reverie as it had just begun to turn from smug appreciation to ill-ease. He scrolled down the document, just to make certain. There, at the bottom, was his signature, sure enough. Although, in this day and age, and given the abilities he knew Jess to possess in her little finger alone, it could all be forgeries.

But he knew these people. In all their dull, predictable unpredictability, deceit (on this level, anyway) did not have stead. The odd lie-by-omission... He glanced at Lady Merchant who once more was standing territorially close to Matt.. They certainly were capable of that. Their motives, however, were easy enough to discern. Everything he had seen them do -whether it be within the rules or in blatant defiance of his authority- was to protect others, preserve life.

So, there were but two possible explanations. One, this was the truth that they had laid out before him, or Two, someone had lied to them. But who? And to what end?

Lester turned his full scrutiny upon the unknown factor, and oddly, the source of all this 'vital' information. Lady Emily Merchant met his gaze without flinching or shying away -a rarity in itself, for he did take quite a deal of pride in his intimidating manner (which he had honed over many years of practical use). Her large, brown eyes were every bit as bright and sincere as their first meeting- if less some of their innocence. They had gained an even sharper edge. If she were playing games, she was one hell of an actress.

All there was to do was to put it to the people he trusted to convince him why to trust the stranger.

"Why should I believe any of this? No offense, my lady, but one can hardly sanction taking action -if I correctly understand what you lot have come to me for- against a man like Philip Burton for a possible future event based upon some poorly reconstructed files and the word of a woman from the 19th century."

"It's the truth," Matt said.

One thing was for certain. The woman possessed undeniable charms to have Matt wrapped so tightly about her finger. Odd, he hadn't seemed the type to fall to something as trite as feminine wiles. Could there be more going on here?

The pair in question were locked in a silent yet loaded exchange.

"Tell them," Emily said. Matt appeared resistant to her suggestion. "Now would be the appropriate time if ever there was one."

Lester watched in barely repressed shock and irrepressible curiosity as Matt caved. The generally laconic man swallowed, visibly nervous. Hell, it made Lester nervous just seeing a man who faced down all sorts of creatures that'd easily have him for lunch without a second thought filled with anxiety... over what?

"I can confirm everything Emily has disclosed," Matt said. "Her information comes from my people. I was not born in the 20th century. My world -this world's future- is a doomed one. I, among others, was sent back in an attempt to prevent it."

"It?" Lester mocked, unable to help himself. "For all you know 'it' could be a solar flare."

"We knew it had to do with the anomalies. We knew about the ARC. That's why we were sent back to infiltrate it, to keep an eye on you."

"We?" Abby asked, preempting Lester's interjection. The young woman looked as confused and hurt as Lester felt (although, he'd never admit it even to himself).

Matt looked away, speaking softly.

"I'm so sorry, Matt," Jess said. Apparently, along with Emily whom was already aware of these facts -_he would tell a strange woman the truth about himself after a few days, but not trust people he'd worked with for over a year!- _Jess was not feeling betrayed.

"Let me get this straight, Lester said. "You come from a future where humanity is struggling to survive. And to prevent the apocalypse, you were sent here through an anomaly."

Matt gave him a 'How else would I have traversed time?' look.

"You're certain it wasn't, I don't know, say, a Delorean? Or naked in a time bubble? I'm favouring the latter, since you seem to be playing at being John Connor."

Wow. Did he seriously just make those references? He must be more livid than he thought. His brain wasn't functioning correctly. Or he had spent too much time around Connor Temple: Genius Geek Extraordinaire. That's what he got for taking in pathetic waifs that couldn't tell their girlfriends how they felt.

"Lester!" Abby was possibly the only person in the room, let alone alive, that could give him an admonishing look to its desired effect. And she was absolutely right. This squabbling was unimportant, a waste of time. But at the moment, it was all that was keeping his fury in check. It allowed his brain to focus on what mattered. It did _not _matter that Philip Burton was one of the only reasons the ARC was still in operation. It did _not_ matter that Matt Anderson-

"Is that even your real name?"

"John Connor? No." Was the man really attempting to turn Lester's sardonic wit back upon him? Matt -or whoever the hell was sat before him- maintained a neutral facade. "There was no call to change my name. We built my identity here around it."

Lester had never seen Matt falter, flinch, but for a moment he appeared... weary.

"All my life I've been working towards this point." Steel entered his fierce blue gaze. "I will not fail."

"Well, apparently, it's no longer up to you." Lester did not doubt the man's sincerity. The only question was what -if anything- could be done? And by whom? And to what end? "Obviously, you cannot do this alone. Otherwise, I would be enjoying some peace and quiet in ignorant bliss, believing those around me respect me enough not be keeping gargantuan secrets from me and lying to my face every single day."

Matt glared, but was there guilt in there somewhere? Lester wasn't prone to anything as banal as sentimentality or hope, so he allowed himself to believe that it wasn't just wishful thinking that he found remorse in the man, that this person before him was not as much a stranger as he feared.

Alas, it did not matter whether Matt had betrayed him. Not if this story about Philip Burton and the future was the truth. Lester found himself sighing for the hundredth time that day. The earnestness of all present was enough to convince him. The four gathered pensively around him, even the relative stranger from a different era, held more clout with him than Philip ever would. And what he had seen in those reconstructed files... He wouldn't put it past the conceited bastard to risk all of humanity in an attempt for personal gain.

The fallout would be massive, for the Anomaly Research Center, for all involved, and for him personally. He'd be finished -in every single aspect of the word, except maybe still alive in the technical sense- for making this decision. For although this evidence was blatantly true, it would never hold up to the scrutiny of the wealthy and powerful powers-that-be. A tyrannosaur could roar in their faces and they'd claim the creature had only been a kitten long before its rotten breath ceased to turn their stomachs.

And to be honest, Lester did not exactly care about the distant future. Well, not so distant, according to the sources stood before him. The part of his brain, the part that every single human being possessed, the part that operated to preserve its sanity, could not accept that the apocalypse was imminent. It's what allowed him to coolly consider the facts, consequences, and options without an iota of panic. Well, maybe just a little bit of his mind was screaming hysterically. But it was a small portion, for it required imagination and creativity to consider a catastrophe on such a scale.

But there was a much more immediate, relevant consequence that he found affected him more profoundly than he'd ever care to admit.

Connor Temple.

The young man was in trouble. At least, Abby believed it to be the case. So much so, that Lester found himself clenching his fists in response to the palpable tension radiating off from her. He felt some fear and anger for Connor himself. Because, although it was difficult to believe, James Lester was a man of few real friends. And though he'd never openly admit it to anyone, he considered Connor Temple one of those few.

It was possibly the worst reason a leader of men could base a decision upon, compassion rather than logic. And it was possibly the best reason.

"Given how utterly unlikely it is that Philip Burton will just let you in if you show up on his doorstep looking like malicious door-to-door salesmen, I suppose that you're proposing some sort of raid." Lester clicked his tongue. "It's a shame Captain Becker is out of commission. You know how he enjoys a good military action."

"We could really use him," Matt said. True, his independent, stubborn streak wasn't anywhere near on the scale of Nick Cutter or Danny Quinn, but it still was somewhat surprising to hear the alpha male openly admit to needing someone else's help to complete what was apparently his life's mission. But it also spoke to an impressive patience, perhaps even (shocking though it may be) wisdom, considering the fate of the world was at stake.

"We've got 35 hours until all hell breaks loose. I think we should give it a little more time. He handled it impressively well the last time he was shot by an EMD. Although, that wasn't a double-tap on a such a high setting."

Lester couldn't recall hearing of such an incident.

"_The last time_?"

"Boys," Jess muttered and rolled her eyes.

Did Matt looked ashamed? Nope. Just smug and a bit defensive.

"He questioned the efficacy of the EMDs and volunteered for a field test."

"I somehow expect he suffered a bruised ego more than any physical injury." Lester pardoned the adolescent behaviour, realizing their time for discussion was waning. "Do we know the prognosis for his recovery?"

They, every single person in his office, turned to Jess. For they all knew of her near stalker-like devotion to the captain. On anybody else, it might have been creepy. But she was a sweet girl, which surprisingly did not annoy Lester as much as overly sacharine affectations generally did.

Jess blushed.

Dear lord, he was living in the middle of a telenovela! Odd, really, that he hadn't seen it before. Crazy, murderous wives. Women changing identities. Unrequited love. Losses that weren't losses. People coming back from the dead (or cretaceous, as it were). Quasi-comas. Married ladies falling in love with men from the lower classes (or future, apparently). All they were lacking was someone's evil twin. Oh wait. They'd had that, too.

Frankly, he'd never seen much difference (in the little television he watched) between 'quality' drama and a daytime soap. Except maybe the budget and actors' abilities. And while the soaps took a fatalistic view of the world (perhaps because they made their viewers' lowly, oft mucked-up lives seem better), dramas tended to favour an underdog storyline rather often. Well, they certainly possessed that trait. And there was going to be men with guns, maybe some explosions (although on a personal image sort of level he hoped not -being seen to have blown up your private sector partner's research facilities could be taken as petty and vindictive).

However, it would mean that "We're going primetime, people."

Jess stopped blathering on about Captain Becker and everyone who had still been listening stopped doing so as well, turning and staring at Lester as if his interjection indicated madness.

He cleared his throat and straightened his tie.

From the little useful information he had gleaned from Jess' rambling, Becker was expected to wake within a few hours. Knowing the man, just the idea that he was not up to optimal 'ass-kicking' capacity would make him more determined and, well, 'badass.' As far as Lester was concerned, if the soldier were awake and could stand, he would be more than useful in this little endeavour of theirs.

The apocalypse supposedly happened not the coming morning, but the following. They had a little time to prepare. He knew his people were more of the 'winging it' variety, but an iota of planning would make him feel moderately secure of some sort of positive result.

"Let's reconvene, say... three in the afternoon at..." Where would be useful and not have the lot of them traipsing about his personal space? "Jess' place."

The young woman nodded her head in consent.

"We haven't much time before the surveillance system defaults," she said.

"Right, then. Off you go, children. Out of my hair."

When had he begun to pace the room? He plopped back down in his chair after they'd filed out. Pushing apocalyptic concerns from his mind, he turned back to the stack of papers on his desk. If the world didn't end in just over a day's time. There'd be hell to pay if he didn't get through the reports and requisitions, and especially if he didn't get the payroll approved.

* * *

**A/N: Next parts shouldn't take too long, I hope. Since series 5 starts up soon and once I watch it, I probably won't be able to return to the universe I've created here for its conflicts with the canon, but thus is the nature of fan fiction.**


	8. Beginning Something

**Author's Note: And yeah, caved to the smut… Because Matt and Emily need to be together!**

**Warning: References to adult situations, nothing explicit (I don't think…)**

* * *

_One hour later…_

He had never 'drawn a bath' before. Not even for himself. Was there a procedure to it, besides the obvious? Adjust the water temperature, stop the drain. The tub was capable of filling on its own. He supposed women must prefer bath oils and whatnot, judging by such products' persistence at appearing in the markets and continual manufacturing. However, he had no such thing to offer her. Emily would have to just make do with shampoo and soap. The conveniently, perfectly hot, clean water was the key. He still remembered the first hot shower he'd taken after coming through the anomaly. The blissful indulgence of what now seemed such a banal routine. Back home, water was a commodity not to be wasted. The purifiers and condensers ran night and day, but ablutions were not daily and included either second-rate water or no water at all. The chemical cleansers... he did not miss those.

Rising to his feet, he pulled a clean towel from the linen cupboard and offered it to Emily who stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"All set?" he asked. Was there something he'd neglected? Before Emily, he had never really played host to anyone.

She smiled and thanked him. They moved to pass one another, hesitating briefly as they realized the small size of his ensuite had forced them into a rather intimate proximity. He'd barely have to lean in at all, just a few centimeters, and he'd be kissing those oh-so-tantalizing lips.

He needed to get away from her before he did something rash.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he said, sliding past her without contemplating the warmth of her body too much.

…

"Matt?"

He had been leaning on the railing, looking out over the cityscape, but his thoughts were miles and years -millions of years- away. A thousand horrible scenarios concerning Emily, what had happened to her in their time apart, played through his head, turning his stomach and knotting his heart with guilt. There were also a few scenarios of another, highly inappropriate, delicious nature. Perhaps egged on by his libido, they had fast overtaken his other concerns.

And when he turned to face the woman in the doorway, every other thought evaporated entirely. There was a hand raised above her head slightly, delicately gripping the doorframe, her body leaning completely against the metal casing. The casual stance rendered her curves so alluringly sinuous, they just begged to be...

As was her apparent tendency, she was wearing one of his button down shirts. A fresh, white, crisp one she must've pulled from the clean pile in his wardrobe. It was nothing new seeing her dressed in his clothing. But he had never before seen her dressed _only_ in his shirt. His eyes were drawn, as if hypnotized, to her naked, shapely legs -all toned muscle and soft lines. With her sultry stance, the hem of his shirt was raised to cover her thighs barely more than a few centimeters, the dark shadow between her legs noticeable beneath the white fabric.

Matt licked his lips.

Emily had not done an entirely thorough job drying off. The lightweight cotton clung provocatively to her damp skin in various places. It was plastered to her stomach around her navel. It accentuated the curves of her breasts. Her dripping hair soaked the fabric as to make the peak of one breast clearly visible. And it was all he could do to force his eyes to continue to her face.

Emily was giving him a curious look. His ogling of her had been blatant, but if she had noticed or seemed fazed by it, it did not show. Her eyes were bright and her skin glowed. Some of the weariness had gone, but not completely. Matt wondered if she'd ever be free of it entirely. However, it certainly did not lessen her beauty.

He cleared his throat.

"Did you have a good bath?"

She closed her eyes, a blissful look overtaking her momentarily.

"Divine," she murmured. So appealing was her serenity, Matt longed to be there with her. But it wouldn't do.

"It's cold out here. Let's go in."

Straightening, she turned to do so and caused Matt to stop in his tracks as he made to follow. The back view was just as rousing as the front, and the sway of her hips called to him, pleaded with him. He had always felt the instinctual need to protect her despite the fact he knew she was no fragile piece of glass. He always seemed to tend to treat her delicately. His untoward thoughts had always been to kiss her softly, to caress her gently. But at this moment, he wanted to savage her in the worst kind of way, to grab those hips and pull her harshly to him, to kiss her hard, to take her in a feral manner with rough, mad abandon.

He fought the urge down as he slid the glass door closed behind them.

"Same sleeping arrangements as before," Matt offered, turning to Emily. "You take my bed and I'll crash in the lounge room."

He moved to collect some bedding for himself, but was stopped by slender fingers gently wrapping about his arm. Did she not want to stay in his flat? She had caught him ogling her and was uncomfortable with his presence. Would she rather stay with Jess and Abby?

When he looked into her eyes, he found an unfamiliar glint in their depths. Well, not entirely unfamiliar. Sometimes when he had flirted with her, she had a similar edge beneath the playfulness. If he were entirely honest, it was a bit like the look she had when he'd told her to avert her eyes whilst he dressed and he caught her giving him the once-over that first morning.

"I do not want to sleep in your bed," Emily said.

That look. It looked an awful lot like...

"Unless you are in it, as well."

Lust.

_Oh, god. _He just couldn't stand it anymore.

He growled her name low in his throat. Taking her face in his hands, he leaned in and kissed her in the manner he wanted to do almost since the moment he laid eyes upon her.

And she tasted just as glorious as he'd ever imagined.

And so much more...

* * *

**A/N: Hope I censored enough but kept it interesting? As far as in-character, since they never quite hook-up in the series, it automatically seems OOC. I'd like to think after what I've put Emily through to find Matt, she would be more forward/wouldn't hesitate.  
**


	9. No End to the Nightmare

**Author's note: Some more 'what did Emily get into during her time away?' back story. Because I love some angst as much as (possibly more) than some smut…**

* * *

_95 years earlier..._

Emily groaned as she hit the ground with a 'thud' and scrambled about in muddy, mucky earth. Gateways may be fixed points in space, but topography was not. It changed over time, fluid motions of deposition and erosion abraded periodically with violent upheaval. The earth was almost like a living creature, a giant whose breaths lasted a millennia. Seemingly immutable, its changes unnoticeable until you took a hundred million years in a single stride and fell flat on your face, finding the ground to be several feet below where you had left it a thousand eons and two seconds ago.

She laughed.

It was not a merry sound. Rather, it was an expression born of frustration and pain. To hear it no doubt would turn skin to gooseflesh. For she likely sounded completely mad. But she did not care and could not stop herself even had she desired.

Rendered breathless and gasping from the fit of laughter, she clawed at the earthen wall in an attempt to right herself. Her fingers found purchase against planks of wood running horizontally, buried in the mud and dirt, bracing the crumbling wall. She pulled herself to her feet.

The structure was man-made, then. At least, she hoped that were the case. In her journeying through the gateways, she had discovered that mankind were not the sole superior intelligence the world would see rise and fall. However, they were the only she'd encountered (thus far) capable of manipulating their environment to such a degree.

The tension within her eased a bit, yet remained rooted deep.

Was this the future of which Matt had spoken? The surface unviable, people living underground?

_Not likely_, she thought, looking up to find the clouded expanse of a night sky. A few stars winked at her through the cover. There were flashes of light. _Lightening? _And claps of thunder unlike that of any storm she had experienced. The ground shook with the violence of them, and she put her back to the earthen wall to steady herself.

Just where on God's earth was she?

There was a wall to mirror the one she leant against no more than three feet opposite. They were tall, or deep, as the case may be- about her height again above her head, and wider atop. The glow of the open gateway illuminated the chasm -no, not large enough for that, _trench_ perhaps?- as it continued both to her right and left, disappearing about a twist a few feet in one direction and continuing a bit farther into darkness in the other.

And then it hit her. It was a constant pressure since she'd first fallen through into this place, like being underwater. And it could no longer be ignored. It filled her nose and mouth, her lungs, her ears. It clouded her vision. She drowned in the overwhelming presence of death. She choked on the smell of gore and decay, a malodorous perfume to which she thought she'd grown accustomed. Her head pounded with a fierce cacophony. There were screams in the distance, metallic clashing, quiet pleas, sobbing, gurgling, and death rattles. How she heard any specific sound, she did not know. Together they formed a sickening symphony that could be the opus of the Grim Reaper himself. When she looked up, she half expected to see a dark cloak silhouetted against the flashes of light, a silver crescent of scythe poised to sever her soul from her body.

There was no such creature.

Perhaps, there was no soul to reap. Perhaps, she was already dead.

_She was dead_. And this was hell. Her own, personally tailored hell. It might have been ages since she'd taken her last real breath, her soul forced to carry on like she'd never died, forever passing through gateways from one level of Hades to the next. She'd never escape the horrors. She'd be surrounded by the gruesome sights and sounds of creatures -of people- suffering and dying.

_No_. No, she could not believe that she were dead. Not because she thought herself to merit a better reward. Emily well knew her sins and held no delusions about her transgressions. Put simply, she could not believe there was such a place as Hell, not in the fire and brimstone context, anyway. Hell, or likewise, heaven was a punishment reserved only for the living, created by the clever mind of mankind. She had witnessed too many deaths -of beasts, of _people _to yet retain the belief in an afterlife. One moment they were alive, and the next they were not. No, untrue. It rarely -never, in her experience- came to pass that they were there in one breath and gone the next, as if their soul had been freed from their body to flit away. And 'gone' was hardly the appropriate word for it. Such description implied that the person had simply packed some choice items and, luggage in hand, departed for an exotic locale. Once an individual had witnessed another's death, well and truly, watched the light in their eyes snuffed out like a candle, said individual could no longer lull themselves into believing the deceased had simply moved on to a better location.

People lived.

People died.

And it was oft an excruciatingly slow sort of fading that was difficult to stand watch over. Afterwards, they weren't gone, crossed over, passed away, or departed. They were right where you left them, buried in the ground, ashes on the wind, flesh and entrails scattered across a dale by buzzards -_oh, how difficult it was to breath!_

Nearly collapsing back onto the muddied ground, Emily doubled over as if she had been struck in the belly, only remaining upright by clutching at the slick earthen wall. She panted a bit, her head pounding from the cacophony of death and her stomach a sick, twisted knot of remorse.

No, she was most definitely _alive_. The dead felt nothing. And she was in agony.

There was nothing for it, however, but to survive. Survive or give in to the void of death. No pain. No guilt. No grief. No joy. No laughter.

No love.

If she had discovered her living hell, then she could attain her heaven, as well, but only if she mustered the strength to carry on her fight.

Emily glanced into the gloomy depths about her, focusing her attention to the path opposite where the gateway hovered strongly glittering in the blackness. There was no fear of its closing anytime soon. There were at least a few minutes to spare and she required supplies, if there were any to be had. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark without the vibrant light of the gateway directly in her line of vision, Emily perceived a faint glow illuminating a bend in the trench. An unnatural source of light, perhaps a lamp set by people. If they could be lured away, there may be a chance of obtaining food, weapons, fresh clothing left behind.

Best not to raise her hopes, however, just to see them dashed. In such a sorry state already, her humours just could not stand such a devastation.

Groping along the wall a trifle, Emily wended her way over what she determined to be wooden planks serving as floor that were unfortunately just as hazardously mired as the walls. A few precarious yards later and the bend in the trench was before her, the light an identifiable soft glow of an oil lamp transforming the black into a deep ruddy brown. Low voices fell upon her ears, piquing her interest and incurring her concentration until all else faded from thought in the attempt to discern their words.

One voice sounded wizened, deep and gruff yet possessing a tinge of compassion. Perhaps much to read into a few quietly uttered sentences, but the voice so reminded Emily of that belonging to her favourite uncle she likely was assigning similar traits to this unknown man.

"...should fix you up right as rain," it said.

"Thank you… Doc." The second voice was weaker, softer, higher pitched. However, Emily could discern in it that this was not characteristically so. The faint tone and broken cadence were due to circumstance rather than nature. This man was ill, dying even. "Do you think... they'll forget?"

"Nah. This is 'The Great War.' The 'war to end all wars.' Or weren't you aware?" There was a chuckle from the weakened voice, audibly laden with fluid of one variety or the other. The gruff voice paused a moment whilst the chuckle turned to coughing and eventually calmed.

"Nope. I'm afraid you shall remain a hero forever. And that in of itself is curse enough."

There was an ironic, bitter tinge to the gruff man's words that were apparently lost upon the dying man, but not upon Emily.

"Another Golden Age?" the weak voice asked.

"Unavoidable, really."

"Like under Victor..ia?"

"Certainly."

"Tell... me..."

"A British Empire spanning the entire globe. Peace and prosperity." the voice lowered further for the next part, but a mutter, really. "Well, peace for some and prosperity for a select few." More audibly, "This time round, I wouldn't doubt if we brought civilization to every savage corner of the whole blasted world. Perhaps, even to the Americas."

There was another, measurably weaker, half-hearted chuckle.

"No. Tell me... about..." Some laboured breathing. "...Victoria. Was she magnifi...cent?"

"Oh, by George, she was. She was a right wondrous woman. I glimpsed her once when I was a lad no older than you. It was her Diamond Jubilee. Near eighty years on, and still possessing features chiseled from stone. Made of steel, Our Victoria was. Never be another quite like her, in my opinion."

"Queen Victoria..." The voice was very faint now. "Maybe I'll...see her… soon... See if... can join… her ma...jesty's army...

"King and country...

"Worst ways...

"Victoria..."

The words turned entirely incoherent and then stopped. A death rattle followed, barely audible over a heavy sigh from the other man.

"Doc!"

The loud ejaculation caused Emily to start, for she had been so absorbed by the tableau upon which she'd been eavesdropping, the disturbing knowledge it contained. The outcry had come from some distance behind her. Instinct prepared her to bolt, her muscles tensing to break into a run, but to where? She edged along the wall, her back against the damp earth. Perchance it was not a summons of the man, rather of another soldier also called "Doc?"

Unlikely.

Movement. It had been but a few breaths since the death of his comrade, yet the gruff-voiced man was already upon his feet. Hearing him scuffling about with some indeterminate item, she edged away with more haste, preparing to run off into the dark and back through the gateway.

And then there was nothing supporting her and she fell backward for what seemed a very great distance indeed but could not have been more than a couple of feet, landing with an indecorous plop upon a rise of earth. Her shoulders struck against a compact surface at her back. Apparently, she had stumbled into a nook in the trench wall that she had not previously noticed. A step up and...she felt around a bit... a flimsy ladder. She hastily pulled her legs into the space as the man upon she had been eavesdropping ran past.

The soldier was in such a hurry -and a soldier he undeniably was, adorned in attire unmistakably a uniform, no matter the era- Emily briefly despaired that he'd pass straight through the gateway without realizing. She released the breath she'd been holding in a hefty sigh when he disappeared around a dark corner, a branching path she had neither noticed in the poor light.

Emily swallowed and set her jaw, straightening herself to her full height.

If there ever were an opportune moment for performing the sacrilege of robbing the dead, then this were it.

She emerged from her hiding spot and edged slowly up to the corner once more, hazarding a quick glance round, reconnoitering for any eyes that might still be capable of seeing her.

There were none.

She entered the space still lit by the lamp that had been abandoned by the soldier called 'Doc' along with the fresh corpse laying on a makeshift cot. Emily looked anxiously about, surveying the prospects for acquisition. This place, this horrid place set her nerves horribly ill at ease, for so many reasons, the least of which was the presence of the recently deceased man. No, _boy _was the more apt descriptor, as another perusal of his features informed her. His eyes, already hazy, continued to stare though she knew he saw nothing. There hadn't even been time for the smallest of decencies before 'Doc' was called off, no doubt to witness the death of another such boy.

There wasn't much in the way of supplies to be had. She checked around and behind the crate upon which was sat the lamp. There was only a tin lying upon its top. Inside, she discovered a few biscuits of some irreputable origin. How sorely would they be missed? More importantly, when would she next encounter something as edible even as these pathetic consumables?

Well, no more procrastinating. Better to get this over and have done with the distasteful procedure. Important matter first, however. She closed the poor boy's eyes. Slowly and quite warily she removed the scratchy wool blanket that covered his body. No striking patches of gore, anyway. In fact, his uniform looked rather pristine.

Oh, good heaven, it hadn't been fever that claimed him, had it?

She stepped back. Of all the cruel deaths she had ever envisioned for herself, slowly fading into insanity and death was not one. It probably would hurt a considerable portion less than the deaths she suffered in her nightmares, however.

There was a flash of light and the ground shook, knocking Emily forward onto the stomach of the dead man.

Her skin turned to gooseflesh and she briefly choked on a sob. What she had thought a storm was artillery, artillery unlike anything she had experienced before, its roar a harbinger of a much more dreadful monster than any beast she'd ever encountered. War. A war apparently in her world's future, not far removed from her own time. Would her nephews and great-nephews die as this boy had, here, perhaps a few more yards down the way in the dark trench. Had she remained in her own time, had finally given her husband children, grandchildren, would they have died here, already buried deep in the earth's soil? Were they the ones she heard crying out in the night, in agony, ripped apart by the thunderous storm?

This was not useful.

And she had abandoned no descendents to this fate. She could not save the world. Nor did she really care to try.

So why then had she adopted one man's battle to do so as her own?

All this time, all this struggle, it could no longer be denied that she was fighting to return to the man, and the man alone, not his crusade against the inevitable. In this of all places, the fate of mankind was most apparent. They would ultimately destroy themselves.

And all she could do was survive. Survive and search for that bit of happiness, whether it last but a moment or decades, or whether she achieved it at all.

Once she had calmed, she observed that it was not fever that had claimed the young man. There was a small hole in his coat, a stain of blood, but not as much as she would have expected to merit his death. The buttons were cold in her fingers as she fumbled to unfasten them. Someone had managed to apply bandages to the wound shortly after it had been sustained, for it had bled little. The abnormal discoloration around the wound, the viscous fluid that was not blood, the sickening stench... Gangrene had claimed the boy. And even with the damage and the smell, the coat was an improvement upon her own soiled attire.

Carefully, she removed the rapier slung at her hip, placing it reverently beside the tin of dubious biscuits she had decided to force upon herself. Next she shed her own coat. Its absence would be quite lamented, but with the gore baked into the leather as it was, the garment was an utter loss. Luckily, it had saved the clothing beneath. As respectfully as she could manage with time beginning to press on her thoughts, she undressed the young soldier's body, tossing her bloodied skirts, petticoat and with a final wistful caress, coat aside. It was almost sad, that even after such abuse as she had rendered upon them, her boots were in far better condition than the kit provided the soldier. It was a bit of work unwrapping the bandages that covered his trousers from below the knees and over the tops of his boots. Their purpose was obviously preventative for she found no injuries there.

The fit of the uniform trousers and coat was not so bad as she had expected. Would she had preferred her own garments?

Yes, of course.

Would any number of predators catch the scent of the caked on gore as soon as she passed through a gateway into their territory?

Most definitely.

This was the way it must be.

Emily covered the dead soldier with the wool blanket once more, drawing it up to obscure his face as well. There had been a weapon, a pistol of some sort, in a holster attached to the young man's belt. Briefly she removed and examined it. A revolver. Nothing all that foreign to her. Fully loaded. It would be of no use to the soldier now, but it might save her life, or help fill her belly. She secured it upon her person, added the rapier, pocketed the tin and headed back towards the gateway.

It was a glowing beacon in the dark and horrid place. Truthfully, she had no right to judge these people, for she resided on no higher moral ground, having done... _despicable_... things. However, possessing the capacity for darkness did not follow that she enjoyed being plunged into it, surrounded by imaginable horrors and the suffocating presence of death.

Emily only wanted an escape.

By the time she passed through the gateway, she was running for all she was worth.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter features a little taste of Trench Warfare circa WWI. Not guaranteed to be historically accurate, but I try my best. **


	10. Beginning to Hope

**Author's note: So given that I won't finish this before series 5 starts (of likely finishes), I guess this fic could now be categorized as AU for series 5, since it will most definitely clash with the canon.**

**And now we vacillate back to the mush… :-)**

* * *

_2011..._

Emily awoke to bright cerulean eyes.

Matt _would _be the type to snap perfectly awake and aware from a dead sleep. Unless there was a purpose plaguing her mind, or in the past, the promise of sport, Emily did not very much care for morning. She groaned and shifted, stretching as much as she could, limited beneath Matt's closely hovering form as she was. Amusement spread across her face as she discovered his body's interest of the previous night to be renewed. Perhaps, there _was_ sport to be had this morning.

She met his eyes and frowned, finding concern in his look now that she were awake enough to detect it.

"What is it?" she asked.

"You had nightmares," he said. The back of his fingers softly stroked her cheek.

"Did I?" She yawned, feigning ignorance. It wasn't really a lie, since she could not remember them... The likelihood that her dreams had been unpleasant was more than a distinct possibility, however. It had been too much to hope that the comfort and security Matt's presence always seemed to lend her would translate to her consistently disturbed slumber as well.

He persisted in staring contemplatively at her.

"I don't remember."

His look turned incredulous, edged with hurt. He probably felt that she did not trust him enough to divulge the truth. She never wanted to hold him at a distance. Not when she had endured so much, done so many terrible things just to see him again, and he had accepted her into an intimacy that had begun to stir her heart to hope…

She sighed.

"I honestly do not remember. But it is likely that my dreams were less than easy." She smiled. "I am quite content now and would rather not recall such unpleasantness."

She slid the hand she had laid upon his arm over the bare skin of his shoulders to grip the nape of his neck and pull him down to meet her lips. The kiss did not retain the novelty of the first or that of the subsequent embraces the previous night, but it was no less stimulating or enjoyable. Matt returned her mouth's invitation fervently. Her fingers kneaded his neck, and then her hand fell slack as the kiss broke and left her panting and deliriously happy.

Heat blazed down her throat, between her breasts and across her stomach as his lips trailed over her bare skin. And more than just sensuous, the kisses tickled her. She laughed unreservedly. And then they stopped. She could feel a finger tracing over the raised, hard tissue of the four inch long scar to the left of her navel and shuddered over the memory of its acquisition.

His face reappeared, his penetrating eyes locking upon hers. He was silent for a moment that found Emily trying not to hold her breath or wince in anticipation of the questions to come.

"How are you?"

It wasn't what she had expected. She knew it was because he cared about her that he was so interested in knowing everything that had happened in the years she had been away -well, hours, for him. He seemed almost desperate to know, out of apparent guilt. But he had not yet asked her this.

Placing a hand on his cheek, she gave him a brave smile.

How could she tell him of all the lingering, haunting pain? How could she tell him that she finally felt whole now that she was with him? How could she tell him that she was so happy it hurt and so terrified she was dreaming it all?

"I'm well," she said. "I'm happy to be with you."

It seemed a satisfactory enough answer, for he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth. Tenderly at first, and then as his tongue ran over her lips and parted them, the intensity only increased until their entire bodies were involved in the embrace. His hand wandered down from her face, caressing her arm, her waist, her hips, stoking a carnal fire within her. She arched into him, pressing the whole of her body against his, eager to experience the blissful intimacy of the previous night once more.

His mouth still captured by hers, Matt simply groaned in response. And then his lips moved to her throat. Emily sighed, enjoying his attentions. And she gasped when he parted her thighs, anticipating the ensuing ecstasy.

When Emily awoke again, the sun was still low in the sky. It couldn't have been long since her first, rather _interesting _awakening that morning. Matt stirred where he lay sprawled over her body, his head resting in the crook of her neck and shoulder, his face buried in her hair.

He had fallen asleep on top of her again. The overwhelming presence of him was something she rather enjoyed, the weight more a comfort than hindrance despite being slightly suffocating. Yet it was a habit that would doubtless become annoying if it persisted.

"Are you quite done grinding me into the mattress?" she asked when he moaned in a pleased, sleepy manner.

There was a poignant silence and she could just picture the facetious look on his face without seeing his expression. As he chuckled lightly, she felt his weight lift from her and a kiss was placed on her cheek.

"For now."

Another kiss found her lips. Then his piercing blue gaze bore into her once more. God, how she both hated and adored the ease with which he penetrated her soul! It unnerved her, aroused her, pulled her in and made her want to look away.

"Stay," he whispered.

She laughed so as not to cry.

"I only left last time because I knew you would not -_could not _ask me to remain."

"That's not what I meant."

She could see it in his eyes that her leaving again were no longer an option he considered bearable. Then what...?

"Don't go today. Don't come with us to stop New Dawn."

That again.

"Did we not already discuss this? Do you not think me capable?"

"You know I do." He sighed heavily. "And you know why I'm asking you to stay away."

Her heart quickened.

"Tell me," she said quietly. "Please."

"If you were hurt... Or worse..."

He looked away, shifting to a sitting position, swinging his legs to the side of the bed and putting his back towards her. Drawing up onto her knees and clutching the linens to her chest, she leaned against the tense muscle of his back. She nuzzled his cheek, and placed kisses along his jaw. Then she whispered into his ear the words she knew he could not deny for whatever selfish and overprotective reasons that made him hesitant to see her endangered.

"You need me."

He heaved another great sigh and she felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten, saw his jaw clench.

"You have no idea," he muttered.

"How was that?" she asked as she swung around, slipping into his lap with her legs straddling his waist. The bedclothes were a horribly twisted mess she would've despaired to ever being free of, if she could think beyond the man whom she was sat upon in an intriguingly stimulating manner.

He growled her name.

"I knew since the moment I first saw you," he said. "That you would drive me mad."

He took her face in his hands.

"_Please_, Emily, just be careful today. Don't do anything stupid."

"I promise I will not do anything you would not," she said, placing her hands upon his forearms and smiling mischievously. He returned her smirk despite his apparent concern.

"That's what I'm afraid of..."

* * *

**A/N: Probably will continue to be shorter chapters as we get into the action-oriented bits and hopefully a quicker pace (If I cut down on my verbosity). And don't worry, we're getting to Connor in a few parts. It's probably going to be a let down after the build up of everyone worrying about him, but there should be some juicy bits (my favourite of which is already written), so stick around... **


	11. And So It Begins

**Author's note: Some Jess… for the fun of it. And her POV seems to be a good segue into the more actiony/climactic bits.**

* * *

"Oh, suck an elf!"

Why weren't there any good satellites to be had? Instead of being able to 'borrow' one that could distinguish one ant from another in the same hill, she was struck with an antiquated piece of space garbage that made the ARC vehicles look like ants themselves. Jess despaired of having an appropriate eye on her team, but bar redirecting a satellite from its set orbit and getting caught doing so, she'd have to make do with what was currently passing overhead.

She was trying to be patient, but when she couldn't spy on them via CCTV or satellite, it was difficult to sit still. And it was downright impossible to resist eavesdropping. For courtesy's sake, she always tried to wait for them to contact her, but she had the ability to tap into comms whenever they were switched on.

They had just reached the staging area, she told herself. She wasn't missing out on anything. But oh, she couldn't help herself! Not only was it her job to know everything, it was her nature.

And she wanted to be there for her team, her friends, even though there was no way she'd ever desire to be in the field. The few experiences she had gave her nightmares enough.

Bugger it!

Jess tapped into the comms and felt her anxiety ease significantly just for hearing their voices.

/That's an interesting weapon./

She knew the voice better than her own, it was such a familiar constant in her ear while managing the field teams. It was not because it pervaded her dreams. For she most certainly did _not_ dream about Captain Becker. Much.

/May I?/ the captain asked. There was a long, tense pause. /Or not./

Then a rather new addition to Jess' catalogue of voices she could recognize with under two syllables spoke up. An elegant flowing sort of cadence, albeit antiquated. Actually, it no longer seemed so Victorian as it had previously. Perhaps, Emily had been exposed to far too many different syntaxes in the meantime. Or was Jess over-extrapolating once more?

/Of course you may, captain. I do beg your pardon. It's simply that nobody bar myself has handled Tesla since he was gifted me./

/You named your EMD rifle?/

There was amusement lacing the Irish lilt Jess could identify as Matt within a fraction of a second, even though the tone she was used to was that of his curt, business voice issuing orders rather than this lighter version.

/Nikola Tesla was a brilliant scientist and master of electricity. Can you think of more apt a title for an electrical device of this caliber?/

/I was more concerned about the fact that you named the rifle at all, Emily./

/Danny Quinn was quite correct. One does begin to give things names./

Laughter filled Jess' ear. It was soothing to hear. Matt had always seemed to possess a playful side, but like most aspects of the man, he had it tightly reigned in. Jess had decided she approved of Emily without really knowing her at all as soon as she saw how he was with her .

/It's a beautiful piece of work./

Why couldn't the good captain speak of her with such admiration in his tone? Jess heard the clunk of the weapon changing hands. Maybe if she were a big, shiny gun instead of a silly chit of a girl, he'd pay her more notice.

/Thank you. Tesla has indeed been a very good friend to me./

/Well, I have a feeling we'll need all of the friends we can get today,/ Becker said.

/I see you've brought _all_ of yours along,/ Matt said.

If Jess had learned anything about the dynamics of her team was that they diffused tense situations with sarcasm. As if to prove her point, the banter continued over the sound of equipment being prepped.

/Jealous?/

/It's not the quantity of what you've got. It's the quality./ Jess rolled her eyes, but she found herself smiling over their verbal posturing nonetheless. /Besides, my gun's bigger./

Men.

/Really think so? Have you seen the-/

/Is this really the time for a pissing contest?/ Abby's admonishing tone was edged with a desperation Jess had never before heard from the strong young woman. It effectively subdued the pair.

/What's the plan?/ Becker asked after a quiet moment.

/Go up to the front door and knock politely,/ Matt said. /Request that Burton submit to a search of the premises./

/And if that brilliant plan doesn't work?/

/We insist./

There was a snort and the cock of a shotgun. Being an expert on the behavior of alpha males with military training, and one in particular, Jess identified this as a pleased response. He tried not to show it, but Captain Becker quite enjoyed the promise of shooting things.

/Jess, what have you got for us?/

Matt's voice startled her from her contemplation of a certain soldier's restrained smile and dark eyes.

"Not much, I'm afraid," she said, switching on her own comm unit. "I've only done a cursory evaluation of Prospero's systems. Probing any further, let alone attempting to hack them will set off alarms and they'll know you're coming."

/We could really use some eyes inside./

"As soon as you're in, I'll start trying to hack the system. No guarantees upon getting in before the week is out, however."

/I have faith in you, Jess./

"Hope it's not misplaced," she muttered, mostly to herself. "And Matt?"

/Yeah, Jess?/

She took a deep breath.

"Your comm units won't function in there. Sorry."

/Right. Send back-up in if you don't hear from us in twenty minutes./

No cursing. No snappy remark. Just cold acceptance of the disadvantage. That man could be as hard and unreadable as stone. Jess' insides were writhing about with anxiety just thinking about the situation her friends were going into, let alone facing it herself. If things were as bad as Emily and Matt believed they would be, any one of them could get seriously hurt or worse...

She switched the others' comms off to speak directly and only to Matt.

"Matt, I'm worried about Becker."

/I know./

"He's not fully recovered. And he'll push himself too far without you even asking him to."

/Don't worry./ Matt lowered his voice, the hardness melting as he tried to allay her concerns. /It'll be okay./

"Promise?"

There was a hesitation and Jess knew she had just asked something of him that he could not give. It was a horrible position to put the man already trapped between a rock and a hard place, but Jess needed to know that her friends would come back alive. All of them.

/Promise./

Liar.

* * *

**A/N: Couldn't resist the dorky expletive (anyone get the reference?), since although very cute and stylish, Jess seems a bit of the nerd. :-) **

**A/N2: Again, Emily's timeframe would be too early for the reference (Nikola Tesla) but can't resist the steampunk nod. Really wondering why they didn't put her a bit later, just for the reference possibilities...  
**


	12. Beginning to Ache

**Author's Note: Not sure how I feel about this chapter. It is a bit anticlimactic, but this was never meant as the core of the fic (and I actually like the banal twist I put in). Anyhoo, enjoy? **

* * *

It was difficult for Abby Maitland to focus with her heart pounding in her ears and her stomach twisted in a knot. And it was completely ridiculous, as well. If she could separate herself from the moment, she would probably become quite irate and embarrassed of herself for being one of _those_ clingy girlfriends. Except it wasn't quite like that. Not really. To compare her relationship with Connor to an average everyday sort of couple, just wasn't accurate. And to say so wasn't out of arrogance.

Their relationship started off like so many others, barring the whole chasing dinosaurs thing. A near-blind unrequited adoration on his side and a reluctant, slow build of affection on hers. Moments of awkwardness, tentative expressions of emotion. But then they had been thrown into a hostile environment with only one another to depend upon for survival. The only two humans in the world. For over a year, a long, terrifying and sometimes interesting, year.

They had developed a deep bond, her and Connor, one that few could understand let alone ever experience themselves. He seemed to be readapting well enough back amongst his computers and gadgetry. However, Abby found herself thinking that they may have left the cretaceous but the cretaceous hadn't quite left her. Six billion humans and at her core, she still thought of it as 'Connor and Abby vs. the World.' Her instinct was to protect him above all other concerns.

During their year in the cretaceous, they were never apart more than a few hours at a time, for the thought of losing the only other person in existence was unbearable. They had seen what Helen Cutter turned into with the insanity of isolation in a cruel world, and it was terrifying. And even since their return to 'civilization', they had never been apart for more than a day.

It made her edgy and worried.

The fact that they were just allowed to enter Prospero's facilities without more than a five minute security check that didn't even end in the confiscation of their weapons did nothing to ease Abby's mind.

However, if the stone faced men -whose armament and bearing made Becker's men look like a disorganized troop of girl guides- that were 'escorting' them were any indication, Philip Burton wasn't feeling as nonchalant about their presence as he'd have them believe.

Abby saw Emily start in sync with the voice that crackled in her own ear.

/Hey guys, comms are up./

/Great work, Jess./ Matt's voice complimented in soft tones barely audible through the device in her ear. Their escorts didn't seem to notice he had spoken at all. /What else have you got?/

/It wasn't me. Well, it wasn't _only_ me. Connor caught me hacking the system. Lent me a hand. I've almost complete access now./

/Good. Stay in touch./

Abby had slowed, slipping into the shadow of a doorway before she had even realized what she was doing. The others rounded a corner, and she let out a relieved breath and took a moment to question just exactly what was she intending to do?

And had anyone noticed she had slipped away? Oh, Philip's mercenaries sure looked smart, with their matching fatigues, precision haircuts, rigid postures and neutral expressions. But, as she was beginning to discern, with Philip Burton, appearances were deceptive. The muscle had the abilities and the training, but money hadn't bought the brains.

Some security escort they had been, with nobody bringing up the rear to keep an eye on the ARC team. Abby would've indulged in a gleeful chuckle if she weren't afraid of being caught, certain she'd sound insane, and immensely worried for Connor's well-being.

True, he was at least in form enough to contact Jess, but that was no sure sign. He did some of his most brilliant work under the looming threat of death. For all she knew, he had snuck into Prospero's computer network with nothing more than a paperclip and a gum wrapper_. God, she was in love with MacGyver_. Only thankfully, minus the mullet. Although Connor did put the term 'scruffy' to the test at times.

Ow.

She wanted -no, _needed_ him back now. Right this second or she wasn't sure what would happen.

Tapping the button on the side of her earpiece, Abby concentrated on cycling through the channels landing on a private line with Jess (she hoped). She didn't want the others to know what she was doing, that she had forsaken the needs of the many for the need of the one (even though he was the one she had thank for thinking in Star Trek references).

"Jess?

/Here, Abby. What do you need?/

"Do you have a location on Connor?"

/I thought you were being escorted to see Mr. Burton./

"I...er... got separated from the others."

There was a heavy silence, in which Abby knew the other woman to be contemplating her possible actions, whether she should inform Matt of Abby's cavalier endeavour.

/He's not far. I'll guide you to him./

Abby sighed. Voice of an angel, Jess.

"Thanks."

...

She was running so fast she could not stop in time when the door Jess had referred her to appeared on her right. Skidding to a halt, Abby back-tracked and threw herself at the barrier separating her from Connor. There was a click as the electronic lock cleared.

"Thanks, Jess," she said breathlessly.

/You're welcome./

Ready to fight off hordes of voracious creatures, irate scientists, mad experiments gone terrifyingly awry and calmly cruel mercenaries, she burst into the room to find... Connor Temple sat at a desk before a PC terminal, in no trouble whatsoever. Or simply oblivious to it.

Luckily for Connor, the fact of finding him safe and sound trumped her anger over not finding him horribly abused, in physical pain or about to be torn apart by rabid velociraptors.

"Come 'ere, you!" She gave him no chance to do so as she threw her arms around his neck and pinned him to the back of his chair from behind with her exuberant embrace.

She would never let him go again.

After a second or so of choking and sputtering, the object of her affectionate assault rasped, "Hi, Abby. Nice to see you, too."

Realizing that she indeed would have to let the man go if she wanted to understand his words, or wanted him to continue breathing for that matter, she released her grip and spun his chair so that her was facing her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. His confused expression turned into a frightened one, his eyes widening and his genuine, goofy grin turning to a wince. "I forgot to call, didn't I?

"Sorry, Abbs. You know me. Philip's had me working on this major problem. I mean 'End of Days', 'The Day After Tomorrow', 28 Days Later'-well, probably won't be any zombies. At least I hope not, because you know, dinosaurs are really enough. But it's going to be bad. I mean-"

"Connor!"

Abruptly shutting his mouth, he gave her a sheepish look for his rambling.

"You really think Philip wants to help?"

She rolled her eyes over the sincerely ingenuous look upon Connor's face. The world he lived in wasn't quite the same as the one in which Abby and everyone else resided. Despite being exposed to a harsh year in a cruel environment, witnessing so many deaths, having his mentor die in his arms, Connor Temple lived in a compassionate world, where people cared about one another and monsters were simply creatures displaced from their time. It had never even occurred to him that a brilliant man would use his gifts not to benefit others but for selfish gains. She hated to hurt him, almost envied his bubble, but he couldn't protect himself if he didn't see the threat.

"Why do you think we're here? Did it not seem odd that Jess was trying to hack Prospero's systems?" A blank stare met her rhetoric. "Philip's the one messing with the anomalies!"

"Wh-what?"

"Ugh!" She threw her hands up, turning away while she tried to compose herself. The 'L' word had never really come up, not since that time when she had been dangling from the edge of a cliff, but Abby knew how she felt, and it must be the most profound kind of love, since she did not walk out over the exasperating thick-headedness of the young man stood stupidly before her.

She had to do it, didn't she? Had to plunge the knife in where it hurt. It was something she should have sat down and talked to him about when she first witnessed it, seeing it for what it was, but she had been the coward, because she knew it would be painful. For the both of them.

"He's not Cutter! Can't you see that? Or are you so desperate for a father-figure?"

Pain, loss, frustration, bitter loneliness and agonizing memories she found in his expressive brown eyes. When he spoke, it was quietly and much more sober than was the optimistic young man's tendency.

"Abby, I-"

The door to the lab opened, the sound startling them from their rather intense conversation. A man with that same precision haircut and smart blue fatigues entered, already forging into mid-sentence before his substantial form was fully in the room.

"Mr. Burton wants to see you..." The pug-faced mercenary trailed off as he spotted Abby. Well, maybe not 'pug-faced' per se. Not naturally or originally so, anyway. The squished effect to his features was blatantly the result of being crushed in the past. The nose was bent and smushed. It must have been broken several times. His left cheekbone, too. And his ear that she could see more clearly boasted the first signs of cauliflowering, as in the manner of pugilists. This man had been a fighter, in what capacity, Abby wasn't certain. But he was looking at her like a man who had lived a hard life and finally fallen into a cushy security gig -one which was threatening to become very much like real work by a diminutive blonde woman with fierce eyes.

"You," he said, jabbing a meaty finger in her direction. "So this is where you'd gotten off to. Best come along and rejoin your friends."

He grabbed her wrist.

Abby ground her teeth., her muscles tensing.

There was a warm, comforting hand upon her shoulder. The warning touch had been the only thing that had kept her from... Well, she had no idea what she was about to do, only that it would not have been pleasant for anyone involved.

The mercenary met her eyes, and then deciding better than continuing down his current path, looked away, releasing her arm. She'd have to watch him. He wasn't as stupid as he looked. Mr. Former Pugilist opened the door and gestured in one of those deadly polite ways for them to proceed him into the hall.

Abby took a deep breath to calm herself and ease her hyper-excited aggressive side as she warily passed the ugly bastard.

What was important was that Connor was safe, she told herself.

For now...

* * *

**A/N: Poor Abby, all worked up and worried for Connor and he was just doing what he likes best, being a geek. :-p **

**What's happening with Matt, Emily and Becker? Stay tuned… ;-)**


	13. A Journey's End?

**Author's note: So, this bit isn't very action-filled, and exposition is not my strong point, but somehow this seemed necessary for where it's headed…**

* * *

His heart was beating so rapidly it felt almost as if there were a hummingbird trapped in his chest. It was all Matt could do to keep his hands from shaking, let alone combat the cascade of indeterminate emotions.

Lucky for him, he had spent the majority of his life pretending his heart was a rock, and rendering any distracting feeling as granite to sink to the bottom of the void his soul had become. No, untrue. The only thing preventing his head from imploding at this overwhelming moment was the exhilarating, exhausting, and subsequently peaceful night (and morning) he had spent in Emily's arms.

His father had been absolutely right. Emily was a distraction. And his father had also been absolutely wrong. Her reappearance had calmed him, braced him against what was to come. She was a godsend. Of course, that wasn't true of their first meeting, when she had knocked him off kilter both literally and figuratively. The woman, the feelings she stirred, had been _the_ last thing he'd needed. She had confused the situation, confused him. Hell, the appearance of the anachronistic pair had even confused his father into believing Ethan -Patrick Quinn- was the one to cause it all, when their first instinct about the ARC had led Matt to suspect the man sat before them.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?" Philip Burton addressed them after rising from his desk in a deceptively gentlemanly fashion. He had a practiced ease to his mannerisms that gave nothing away.

"We need to search the building," Matt said.

As for Matt and those standing beside him, they put forth a far less reserved front. Emily couldn't seem to keep the anger and distaste from her face. And even Becker was tense. Well, in the way highly trained, inveterate military men were tense. Which was to say, he appeared completely relaxed to the casual observer. There were little signs, though, that Matt had picked up upon through enduring near daily exposure to nerve-wracking situations with the man. There was a certain tendon in his neck, another in his arm that bulged perceptively when he clenched his jaw ever so slightly and gripped his sidearm or clenched a fist in anticipation.

"And might I inquire as to what authority has granted you the right to execute such a search of _my_ facilities?" Burton asked, only the slightest bit of possessive edge to his, as ever, urbane manner.

"The authority of mankind," Matt said.

Dropping the pretence of solicitude, Burton snorted.

"You have a flare for the dramatic I never pegged you for, Mr. Anderson. But I'm afraid that without any legal grounds, I'll have to decline your request."

His hands took on a cliché expansive gesture, no doubt learned in a training seminar on business practices: Always remain open and accessible to your audience, be they client, employee, or hostile anomaly chasers accusing you of destroying the planet. And never relinquish control of the conversation...

"You see..." Burton continued speaking, not allowing them the opportunity to give voice to the real purpose of their visit, as if unspoken truths were any less valid. "...the proprietary value on many of the projects done here are astronomical and depend upon the utmost secrecy."

A big, fake smile that said, 'you understand, don't you, dumb little persons of no consequence.'

"Such as New Dawn?" Matt asked.

The smile faded, Philip Burton's genial facade faltered, his eyes momentarily widening with shock and then narrowing with suspicion.

_Gotcha_. The mogul had thought Matt and his team to have shown up on his doorstep because they'd detected an anomaly in the vicinity (a thought for later, ask Connor why they hadn't detected any such activity in the area when Emily had herself come through one there). That's why they hadn't been relieved of their weaponry, weaponry that for all intents and purposes was basically the same they brought to combat a creature incursion. The man thought he could play about a bit, persuade them off, or make an act of surprise at finding an open anomaly in the building and allow them to close it. But he had just discovered otherwise, and it was apparent on the wealthy scientist's face.

"Temple," he growled under his breath.

"It wasn't Connor who spilled," Becker said, seemingly as eager as Matt to throw the snide man off-balance. It worked, for Philip looked briefly confused, and then his steel eyes fell upon Emily, recognition flashing across his face.

"She's the one who urged you to come here with intent to storm the premises?" he asked of Matt. "Did you not think to question _her _motives?"

Apparently, 'blame the time-traveling Victorian woman' was the new tactic. It was a poor choice. But Philip couldn't really guess as to how familiar Matt was with her, how well he knew her heart, how well she knew his pain. Blaming the only other person currently in the world who personally knew what the future held, what was at stake, would get the man nowhere.

"I have reason to believe she was in league with Helen Cutter."

Emily surged forward at this gravest of insults. She may not have been around long, but it was apparent that she had learned a few things during her time at the ARC, and Helen was infamous as villains came to the people there. Luckily, the adrenaline and edgy nerves allowed Matt to catch her arm before she could attack the arrogant bastard who'd insulted her. The sound of her teeth grinding was audible as she steadied herself.

Interestingly enough, the pair of mercenaries stood by the door had made no move to prevent the act of aggression. They were likely only prone to react upon Burton's indication. That, or they made the grave mistake of thinking Emily posed no real threat.

"You are the most repulsive creature I have ever encountered," Emily spat. Literally, the woman of refined, impeccable manners spat on the fancy hardwood floor. It took Matt a moment to recover from the spectacle, ultimately deciding that he liked her vehement side. He thought better of fully releasing her arm.

"That's an interesting accusation..." Matt continued, forcing himself into a calmer cadence than he was currently capable. Every nerve in his body was buzzing, every desire was to get this finished as quickly as possible, to finally end his sole mission in life. But a violent coup wasn't the ideal. Especially when Burton had his own private army. And those men didn't carry weapons meant to simply incapacitate. Slow and easy would be preferable. Perhaps they could even convince the man that his actions would have horrible results, that he should discontinue his tampering with the anomalies. _Yeah, right. And a Tyrannasaurus was vegan._

"...seeing as how we have reason to believe that you had more than a passing acquaintance with Helen Cutter. You helped her, didn't you?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," Philip said.

"Then it must be true."

Philip Burton sighed.

"Fine. You've dragged it out of me. I knew Helen Cutter. Brilliant woman. But absolutely, clinically, insane near the end there."

"You aided her attempt to destroy mankind?" Emily asked. Apparently, she had become quite well acquainted with the ARC's history.

"No." Philip laughed, as if the idea of it were utter ridiculousness to him. "Of course not. I'm a scientist, not a self-destructive madman."

Did he not know the irony of that statement? Matt would've laughed if he were not wound so tightly that he feared he'd snap and never stop laughing.

"She had information of use to me," Burton said.

"And what did you give her in return for that information?" Becker asked.

"I'm a businessman. I would never expect to get something for nothing. And I'm afraid the particulars of our agreement are confidential."

"What obligation do you have to a dead woman?" Becker asked.

"An agreement is an agreement..."

Why did it feel like Burton was stalling? He clearly knew the reason for their showing up on his doorstep with weapons in hand and determined looks upon their faces. And all of these pointless accusations and defenses, while potentially imparting some intriguing glances into Helen Cutter's final descent into madness, were getting them nowhere closer to completing Matt's mission and saving the world.

"Stop whatever it is you're doing to interfere with the anomalies." Matt interrupted more of the scientist-come-mogul's deflections.

Philip turned amused eyes upon Matt.

"And finally, we have out with it," he said. Smug, superior bastard. "Do you have any idea what it is I'm accomplishing here?"

"Do you?"

"Think of it, Matt..." He half-expected the scientist to cozy up to his side, drape an arm about his shoulder and wave the other in an expansive gesture as if to take in the horizon. Philip's exuberance was in a tone of voice reserved solely for wild dreamers and shysters.

"Philanthropists are always throwing money at the world's problems, hoping to create a better future. But I say why is there any reason we can't have a better _present_? An end to war, famine, disease..."

_And a way to increase your wealth and influence exponentially._

"And if you destroy the world trying, no matter? As long as the cause was just?" Matt asked.

The exuberance, whether pretended or real, faded from Philip Burton's face. Emily's hand slipped into Matt's and she squeezed it gently. Her fingers were warm and firm and reassuring. It was as if she knew the pain it caused him to finally discover it was such a man with no conscience or care, that it was all for a futile attempt to amass more power and wealth on top of the abundance he already held that destroyed the future.

It hurt.

It hurt in an entirely new and profound way. Before, the harsh living conditions of his time had been a simple fact of his existence, of everyone's existence. There were stories about a better world. But they had just been stories. The 21st century had been a shock. It had hurt to know, not just to have been told, that the world had been a different place, that it _should_ have been so for his people as well. But this was the worst pain yet, learning it had all turned, the fate of billions, on the whim of a man like this.

Matt ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And he stared directly into Philip Burton's eyes. Not many people really considered it, but if they had done, they'd realize that nobody ever really looked directly into another person's eyes. And with reason. They were not necessarily the windows to the soul, but nonetheless it was a very intense, personal act.

Neither would look away first. Philip Burton was obviously not a man willing to relinquish control. And his steel gaze never wavered. Normally, Matt would gladly acquiesce. His nature was to blend, to be inconspicuous, to be exactly what was expected. However, that had all been to achieve this end. And what was required was unwavering solidity and resolve. Matt knew the measure of this man, the lengths he was willing to go to succeed. And, now he knew the measure of Matt, the lengths he was willing to go to stop him.

"Connor discovered the consequences of your 'philanthropic' dabbling, didn't he?" Matt asked. "He came to you and what'd you do? Give him false reassurances, lock him up somewhere when he didn't believe you?

"I'm aghast at such defamations to my character." Apparently, the stare-down had done nothing to deter the falsehoods. "There's no need to concern yourselves..."

There was a rap at the large, oak doors that looked like they'd been removed from very old estate somewhere and installed in the new facility, simply for their imposing character.

"Ah, if you don't believe me, then you can ask Connor. That should be him now."

Philip nodded to one of the guards, who opened one of the great wooden doors. Connor, looking only his standard sort of shabby, perhaps with slightly darker circles 'round his eyes and shade of weariness walked through. Close behind, was a fiery, petite blonde woman.

So that's where Abby had gone off to. Matt had figured as much, but it was a slight relief to know she was safe. Well, as safe as any of them were in this place, with this madman.

"Hey, guys." Connor greeted them with a typical genial wave. However, he was wearing the expression he tended to adorn when covering a profound anxiety. "What's going on?"

"Your colleagues and I were just having a friendly chat," Philip said.

Matt glared.

"Enough," he said. He tapped his earpiece. "Jess, prepare to send in back-up."

Philip's smug superiority actually faded away entirely. Perhaps, the man had finally realized that he was not in full control of every aspect of this situation. He put his hands up in a placating gesture of surrender.

"I guess I'll leave it in Connor's capable hands to explain the work we're doing here," Philip said. He headed for the door. Everyone in the room turned, their eyes trained on him. "Once you've realized the grave error you've made, you can contact me via James Lester or the Minister to issue your apology."

He addressed the guards, clapping his hands together and behaving as if everything were 'business as usual.'

"It looks as if we're done for the day," Philip said. "Please inform everyone that they may leave."

He graciously turned to Matt. "Unless you require them...?"

Was Philip attempting to smuggle something out with his people? Then why would he leave it up to Matt? Unless he was bluffing… These games were driving him absolutely insane. This was all... wrong.

It was all too bloody easy...

* * *

**A/N: Why did Philip give up so easily? And what is Connor thinking? Coming up next...**


	14. It Will NOT End This Way Again

**Author's note: Yet some more exposition… What better way than via Connor?**

**PS Love hearing from you guys, but please no spoilers for series 5 (which I have not yet watched…sad face…)**

* * *

Connor Temple could only watch on, dumbfounded, as Philip's security guards relinquished their weapons to some of Becker's men and the captain handed off Philip himself to be escorted from the premises.

He couldn't seem to find the words, any words for that matter.

First, he'd discovered that a horrible anomaly event was imminent. He'd run off to warn Philip Burton, the only man he thought could understand and help solve the problem. Connor had been instinctively opposed to the suggestion that they keep the revelation from his team. He was used to solving problems with his friends' aide. Bu he had to yield to Philip's logic. They would only set the ARC and (if Lester reported the situation as he was both liable and required to do) the world into needless panic. Perhaps it was arrogant (it definitely was, looking back on it now) but they had been the best people, the only ones, that could find a solution. So Connor had accompanied Philip to Prospero's research facilities and gotten down to work.

And then Abby had appeared, presumably to check up on him since he had stupidly failed to tell her where he was. But then she had exploded at him, a nuclear level blast of sentiment, threatening tears and anger. They'd been summoned to Philip's office before he could make her out, where he found Becker, Matt, and oddly, Emily in heated conversation. Becker had most definitely not been in his 'at ease' stance. And Connor had never seen Matt look so... _emotional_. It had appeared as if the only thing keeping the man together was the woman at his side, holding his hand. She must have decided to stay, which given the state Matt seemed to be in, and her calming affect upon him, was a good thing.

It was also a good thing for Connor's sake.

For Matt turned his attention upon the young scientist and supposed friend. What was-

Matt stepped in close and grabbed the front of Connor's shirt. He in no real way resembled the man Connor had come to know over the past few months.

"What'd you do, Connor? What have you helped Philip do? _Did you know?_"

He was shouting. He was shouting with all-but-contained rage. And he was shouting at Connor, shaking him slightly as he did so.

Where was Abby?

Pathetic, perhaps, but always his first thought when he found himself inexplicably in trouble. (His knight-er-lady in shining armour). Connor hazarded a glance to the side. Becker was warning her off interfering.

"Did you know?"

Connor didn't say anything. He had no idea what Matt was talking about. And he was too shocked over being accosted by this Hyde version of Matt to be able to think about the questions being shouted and shook into him.

Just when it seemed the man staring at him with as much desperation as anger would never let up, a slender hand slid over the arm that had Connor by the shirtfront. Emily interposed herself between them and Matt's vehement gaze fell to her face, softening as it did.

"Matt, is it not likely Mr. Burton lied to him as well?"

Closing his eyes slowly, Matt took a noticeably deep breath and released Connor. He stepped away, turning his back to the those staring agape at him.

Just what the hell was happening to rattle such a stolid man, and to cause someone Connor trusted with his life to turn on him with such distrust and suspicion, such _anger_. It obviously had something to do with the catastrophic anomaly event Connor had predicted. Abby had implied, rather blatantly that Philip was responsible. But Matt had handled numerous potentially disastrous situations with no more concern than dealing with a paper cut. Why had he blown up like this?

When he again faced them, Matt looked like Matt again. Well, a severely troubled, anxious version of him, but the more familiar collected friend Connor knew. When he spoke, it was considerably softer and calmer.

"Sorry, Connor. That was out of line. When you know what's at stake, maybe you'll forgive me."

"Er... no worries, mate. What's going on? Does this have to do with the event I've been modeling?"

"If you're talking about a catastrophic outbreak of anomalies that have the potential to destroy the world, then yes."

"Philip's been helping me to try to find a solution," Connor said.

"Can't be that much help when he's been lying about the cause," Becker said.

Apparently, they all knew something that Connor didn't. Lock yourself away in a lab for a day or so and you're cut out of the loop...

Wait...

"You know the cause?"

He'd been trying to extrapolate a source for the interference from the predictive model of the results. Not an easy task. But any other solution would be a simple mitigation of effects, which could never hope to prevent the event altogether. Containing, shutting down or cancelling out the source of the interference was the only real way to 'save the day.' For, unlike Matt's belief, Connor was well aware of what the physics were telling him would happen. And it wasn't good. He knew what was at stake.

Becker shrugged, looked to Matt.

"We only know that it's Burton whose interfering with the anomalies," Matt said. "That it starts here in Prospero, with something called 'New Dawn.'"

Connor looked at Abby. She gave him a 'I told you so' look, but at least she followed it with a confident 'you can fix this, Connor, I know you can.' She said nothing.

"Okay. Erm..."

He looked round the ornate office. Shelves of expensive, antique books. Overstuffed chairs. High, wing-backed chair by fireplace that demanded a smoking jacket to be sat upon. Expansive oak desk and sideboard to match the doors. And... _bingo_.

The laptop was sat in the middle of the desk, a shiny silver anachronism amongst the Edwardian glory of interior decorating. Connor scurried round the superfluous furnishings, briefly aware of the shocked, indignant expression on Emily's face as he pushed between her and Matt's extremely close bodies. _Right. Tact, Connor. _Abby had more than given up upon impressing any sort of social awareness upon him, let alone manners.

He slipped into the amazingly comfy chair behind Philip's desk, briefly distracted by the consideration that if he had been possession of this chair, there never would've been that embarrassing incident that really all began with the discovery that both his legs and backside were completely numb. Not with this chair, no. this chair took 'ergonomically correct' as commandment set in stone. There was some sort of NASA designed foam in the cushion. He was certain of that. It wasn't actually massaging his back, for there were no mechanisms. But whatever materials (it would be insult to call stuffing) put Abby's wonderful hands to shame. He swiveled a bit, just to be sure... His leg bumped the desk. The laptop screen flashed to life and it chirped its return from sleep mode.

Oh, right. He was in the middle of saving the world. There were several programs running. His tech geek skills, or those of any non-Luddite living the in the computer age, had his brain processing the information faster than his eyes could read the LCD screen.

"Uh. Oh."

Any negative sound at this point would've alerted the others (now hovering over his shoulders) and enunciation wasn't strictly necessary, but he pronounced the two syllables as if he were addressing a particularly inept lip reader.

"What is it?" Matt's voice was so close he could almost feel the damp warmth of his breath. _Personal bubble, people._ Although, Connor supposed that he was one to criticize.

"The project? New Dawn? It's definitely the source of the interference I've been tracking, "Connor said. Did Philip not realize? Judging by the notes still left open, the scientist had been quite aware. "Apparently, he was hoping that I'd discover a way to counteract the negative effects."

"Why did he not simply discontinue the experiment?" Emily asked.

"He had a lot riding on this. It was his life," Connor said.

"Sometimes, geniuses become consumed by projects," Abby said.

There was a bitterness to her voice that informed Connor as to exactly what she were referring. Apparently, the 'I got drunk and spent the entire night trying to construct a flux capacitor out of your hair dryer, the toaster oven, and various other supplies appropriated from their normal household functions' incident had not yet been forgiven.

"What was he trying to do?" Matt asked.

"He's got an extremely sophisticated program running through various algorithms, set to determine frequencies and levels of electromagnetic radiation required to produce a specified result."

"In English, Connor." Captain Becker, always the patient audience for science...

"It looks as if he's trying to find a way to open an anomaly to a specific time and place."

"But why would he want to do that?" Abby asked.

"That's right," Becker said. "You two missed the whole self-righteous spiel."

Philip Burton was beginning to appear a mite unstable. At least, he wasn't the man Connor had thought him to be. There would be serious groveling involved later, no doubt. And as for the justified gloating on Abby's part... Well, he supposed he could deal with that if there _was_ a later.

"Mr. Burton expressed his desires to improve the present state of the world. Perhaps he meant to achieve this through changing past events?" Someone said. Probably Emily, but Connor was too absorbed by his newest discovery to say for certain.

Cutter's model. It was unmistakably his old professor's work, despite (or perhaps because) its being titled the "Brown-Lewis Effect.' At the core, it was his model, anyway. There were Sarah Page's additions. Her distinctive handwritten notes scanned and attached to various plot points. And... _Helen Cutter_... He had seen the insane ramblings and collation of data in her little journal before. It was as unique a signature as Cutter's ordered chaos and Sarah's neat, precise research. And in Connor's book, anyone who would work with that bitch was no bloody good.

_Philip, you bastard._

It only got worse as he put two and two together. Philip had taken the work of his friends, his _dead _friends, and perverted it into a machination that went entirely against the most adamant of Cutter's beliefs. Philip wanted to meddle, to mess with history.

An IM window popped up.

/ARC_OPS: Have you seen this?/

Jess, of course. He had let her in through the backdoors to the Prospero network. A screen popped up as she accessed the terminal. It was the software program designed to run through the algorithms.

Yes, he had seen this.

/ARC_OPS: But did you see the counter in the upper right corner?/

No, he hadn't noticed the small flashing numbers clocking the speed of iterations as it increased exponentially. He hadn't even really noticed that the algorithms were in fact, running.

/CONBOY: Thanks, Jess. Good eye./

"Erm... guys, we have a problem."

The others gave him a collective questioning look.

"This experiment of Philip's... It's, er, running right now."

"What's it doing?" Matt asked.

"At the moment, not much," Connor said. "But as soon as it hits the right algorithm, settles on the right level of radiation and electromagnetic subfrequency .." The hand gesture wasn't strictly necessary, but in these situations, he really couldn't help himself from clarifying as much as possible. He raised two closed hands and then spread the fingers wide "...boom. Anomalies open everywhere."

"Shut it down."

Philip was likely crazy. But he wasn't stupid. Connor had thought it odd that the laptop had been left open and running, granting him access to the various programs. That was, until he realized the reason. For some odd reason, Philip respected Connor and wanted to garner his favour. No, untrue. He just wanted an audience to his brilliance. That's why this had been left for him to find. The research notes were so blatantly, condescendingly meant for them, for him, that they might as well have retained the salutations 'Dear Connor' or 'Dear peons' with 'As ever, yours, Phil' at the bottom.

"He's locked us out. Basically, we can only monitor. That's why he gave in so easy. He expects to be proven right within the hour. And we're all to witness his success."

"Arrogant bastard," Becker muttered.

"Except we all know it's not going to turn out the way Philip expects," Matt said. His hand squeezed Connor's shoulder and drew his attention away from the screen. Matt's eyes said 'You're with us now, right?' Connor nodded.

"How much time have we got?" Matt asked.

"Hour at the most, probably minutes."

"Can you hack the system?"

Connor shook his head. "Not in time. Not even with Jess' help."

"There must be a manual shutdown somewhere," Becker said.

"Philip was quite the paranoid technological genius..." Connor scanned through the schematics again, just to be sure. "It's setup to run entirely by remote computer, even the generator powering the experiment."

"He was a control-freak." Matt sighed and then turned silent and thoughtful. "Connor, will an EMD rifle be enough to take the generator out?"

He'd thought of that, too. But no, it would've been too easy for the likes of them. He shook his head and pointed at the blueprints on the laptop.

'Won't work. He's put EM emitters in there to disrupt any electronics not running on a specific frequency. There's no time to figure it out, let alone alter a rifle."

"I don't understand. Why won't they work?" Abby asked.

"There's a microchip in the rifles," Matt said. "It regulates the capacity of the charge."

"The trigger won't work," Becker clarified when she looked no less puzzled. Abby nodded.

There just had to be a way. Connor yet again perused all the data concerning the generator. And then the experimental apparatuses..

"Becker, you wouldn't have happened to bring any of your more_ excitable _friends along?" Matt asked.

"Lester made it clear that he'd have an aneurism and all of our arses if I brought them out to play."

Oh, shit.

"Another problem." A major one, too. Jess had brought to his attention another program on her perusal of the system.

"What now?" Becker asked. Exasperation was beginning to make its appearance in the hardened soldier's voice, which in of itself was a very bad sign.

"Remember those neural clamps Oliver Leek and Helen Cutter used…?" Connor said. The pit dropping out of his stomach as he thought of Stephen Hart.

"What about them?" Abby asked, adorning a pained expression to match his own.

"Let's just say that Philip anticipated that we'd try to stop his experiment, and has left behind some guards that don't carry guns and won't give you a warning before attacking…"

"Are you saying there are creatures in the building?" Emily asked. Both Connor and Abby nodded grimly.

Matt and Backer seemed to be having their own moment. He caught the end of the silent exchange between the two men. They were both sporting looks as serious as he'd ever seen them possess. It was more than a bit unnerving, to say the least.

Matt looked away. He looked at Emily. There was a brief moment when Connor would've even called his expression 'wistful.'

"I'll do it," Becker said. Matt turned back to the ARC captain. They locked eyes again, an exchange full of understanding and will.

"No. This is my responsibility," Matt said. "You need to get them out of here, make sure Philip doesn't have any more surprises hidden away."

Again, he faced Emily, but there was only business in his expression now.

"Tesla's stock is titanium?" he asked. Emily nodded. "I have a task for him."

_Who's Tesla? _Connor thought.

"May I?" Matt asked.

Emily shrugged the strap off her shoulder and handed Matt what appeared to be an EMD rifle. _Gone a day, and you miss out on all the new gadgets, too, apparently..._

"I thought they would not be effective," she said.

"Oh, it will certainly do the trick," Matt said, turning the rifle over in his hands and feeling the heft of it. _Titanium_, he had said. It must be light. Light, but strong. Pretty unbreakable...Oh...he wasn't...he _couldn't._

Matt nodded at Becker, Abby and Connor where they stood clustered about his chair and the laptop. He kissed Emily on the cheek, near the corner of her mouth. Her eyes closed briefly and she seemed rather pleased by the gesture. And then her brown eyes shot open wide as she must have wondered about the reason for the kiss, but Matt had already run out of the office, pausing only to give them a reassuring smile and wink.

"I don't understand. What is he planning to do?" Emily asked. Her voice sounded strained. Connor couldn't look at her. Instead, he looked at Abby, which was nearly as bad for the sympathetic pain he found in her pretty face.

"He's going to use the rifle to jam the generator," Becker said. Apparently, the soldier was the only one strong (or cold) enough to give the woman an answer.

Connor sucked it up and looked at Emily.

When had she fallen in love with Matt?

(Severely out of the loop, he was!)

The heartache of realization was blatant upon her face, even though he doubted she completely grasped the specifics involving technology far beyond her time. The grim expressions on their own faces were probably enough to inform her that they didn't believe he'd be coming back.

It was an awfully large, insanely, unnecessarily powerful generator... It would go up in a spectacular, 'Bad Boys II mansion' style explosion. If he could even make it there in one piece. Well, if there was anyone who could get by the deadliest creatures from all of earth's history with brains hot-wired to kill, it was Matt.

"We cannot leave him to do this alone," Emily said, fierce, pleading eyes locking upon each of them in turn. Connor squirmed under her gaze. "He won't survive."

She did not even wait for their response, taking off down the hall in the direction Matt had gone. And she was right. Through his own actions, Connor had gotten one of his best mates killed. Stephen had fallen to the whims of a psychopath. Cutter had died in his arms. And he hadn't even been around when Sarah... The last thing he ever wanted to feel was the loss of another friend, a death he could've prevented if only he'd tried.

He looked at Abby. Neither needed to say a word. She felt the same. It was apparent in her determined blue eyes, so strong, so passionate, so loyal and loving. Connor turned to Becker, who looked furious if only because he knew what was about to come out of Connor's mouth and wasn't really adverse to the argument.

"Don't let it end this way, mate," he said. "Not again."

Becker seemed to hesitate. That was to say, it took a microsecond of thought before his military trained reflex was overcome and he made his decision to defy orders. Connor smiled, knowing the argument had been won before it was even made.

Before the captain even bowed his head for the second quick nod of affirmation, Abby had taken off down the hall after their absent friends, Connor and Becker following quickly at her heels.

They made it down several corridors when an explosion rocked the building, sending them all clattering ungracefully to the floor mid-sprint.

That briefest moment of hesitation. It had been too long...

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter is written... (and might be my favourite, which if you know my tendencies, should probably worry you)  
**


	15. Why Would It End Like This?

**Author's Note: Wow, almost had forgotten this fic was focused on Emily, didn't we? And now on to my usual fare, that of abusing characters I love…**

* * *

_7 Minutes 42 Seconds Later…_

It was wrong.

It did not belong.

It had to go away.

It did not belong. It wasn't _right_. It did not belong where it resided.

It was not warm skin. Or supple flesh. Or taught muscle. Or even the soft fabric of clothing.

The charred, twisted shard of metal was not part of Matt's body. At least, not the last she had checked. And she had done a most thorough evaluation a matter of hours ago.

It was wrong.

So wrong. And she needed to correct the error.

The jagged edges of the large piece of shrapnel bit into the flesh of her hand as she wrapped her fingers about it. She took a deep breath. It would likely hurt him as much coming out as it had going in.

"No!"

A hand forcefully latched onto her wrist, halting her removal of the large metal piece that had impaled Matt's body. Instinctively, Emily turned an aggressive glare towards her assailant, barely stopping herself from lashing out before she recognized the young blonde woman.

"If you pull that out of 'im, he'll bleed to death," Abby said.

Emily's eye widened. What had she expected to happen, really? That once the foreign object were gone, he'd be miraculously made whole once more?

"What do we do?" she asked. The young woman was decidedly the more knowledgeable in these matters, and Emily was happy to yield to her expertise.

"Make him as comfortable as possible until we can get him to hospital," Abby said, proceeding to further tear the blood-soaked shirt around the protruding metal.

"Try to slow the bleeding."

The young woman tore the sleeves from her own shirt and attempted to swathe them about the gruesome injury. Unfortunately, Matt began to squirm as he regained consciousness.

"Hold him still," Abby ordered.

Emily shifted him about so that his head and shoulders rested in her lap, her hands placed firmly upon his chest. She could witness the pain announcing itself even before he was fully awake. The lines in his face deepened, his mouth twisted into a wince, his breathing turning ragged. And then he blinked open blue eyes, bright despite -or because of- the trauma. They were almost immediately squeezed shut as he groaned loudly. It was an anguished sort of sound, almost a wail. His breath came in short, laboured gasps. His legs began to move slowly about, as if he were attempting to attain a more comfortable position or escape the agony entirely. He dug his heals into the floor, a futile attempt to ground the pain, the only outcome of which was to further smear the bloody trail they had left by dragging his unconscious body into the small room and across the tile floor to the wall opposite the door.

And then he started to outright thrash, his body writhing about in their arms.

Abby looked at Emily with alarm in her frightened eyes. Blood soaked the makeshift bandages on his stomach ever more rapidly as he twisted about. Emily looked to the floor beside them, where a viscous, dark tide flowed more freely from the wound on his back. The several inch wide, half inch thick, twisted debris of metal had pierced him straight through the abdomen, a few inches off from center, a few inches that were the only reason he were still alive, that he might yet live...

But not if he did not remain still. His muscles were tensing as if he were trying to curl himself into a ball. Emily held one shoulder fast to her thigh, and caught his wandering hand with her free one before he could cut himself on the metal, or worse, pull it from his body as she had been about to do. Abby knelt on his legs, catching and restraining his other arm away from the injury site.

"Calm him," the blonde girl whispered.

Emily caught his wandering eyes, which had faded under the haze of pain from their previous dark blue to a more greyish hue. He did not speak as he stared into her. He did not need to say a word. And she would've prevented him the struggle had he tried to do so. His body stilled a bit as she squeezed his hand and gave him the best smile she had ever bestowed upon anyone.

It contained every wondrous emotion he'd ever elicited within her. Every happy thought of him. Every portion of her heart that belonged to him. It was all of her joy. All of her love.

His instinctual thrashing against the pain ceased altogether. As did the whimpers that were doubtless agonized screams bound to the back of his throat purely by the strength of his will. He simply stared silently into her, as he had done the first time he made love to her.

Emily fought the tears that threatened to fall like a torrent and drown her. She would _not_ mourn him, for he was _not_ dead. And he would not see her cry, for there was still hope. Wasn't there?

_Oh, god._

Tenderly, she wiped the fresh crimson stain away from where it had pooled in the corner of his mouth. Had he begun to drown on his own blood? She caressed his cheek. Glancing up, she found a grim expression on Abby's face to validate her fears. Worse, the young woman looked away, carefully removing herself from pinning Matt's legs to the floor. However, whether consciously or not, the blonde girl kept hold of his hand.

They needed to get Matt out of this place or he would die.

Captain Becker and Connor Temple were at present engaged in the opposing endeavour of preventing things -creatures- from getting _in_. The two men had their backs to the only door in the small, otherwise rather vacant room. And they appeared to be leaning into it hard, straining against the periodic thumps that knocked them stumbling forward and shook the metal door in its frame with an awful creaking of hinges.

Their situation appeared quite hopeless.

Emily found she was rather numb to the realization, however. She turned her attention back to the man bleeding and in agony held in her lap. The only thing in the world, in all of time that mattered to her. Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his in a gesture she had intended to be gentle but found herself unable to maintain as chaste. He had sent her away and she had found him. If he went away, she would find him again. But she did not want him to go. And apparently, he did not want to leave her.

For rather unexpectedly, she felt him return the kiss just as fervently as she bestowed it. His tongue ran over her lips and pushed into her mouth. She could taste him, mingled with an earthy hint of coffee and buried under the tangy, metallic avalanche of blood. The overwhelming iron flavour was, at the least, horrifyingly unpleasant. But her need to feel him close, _alive_, was far more powerful than her revulsion. She did not pull away.

He continued to kiss her as if he had the capacity to carry through on its promises. As if his hands had the strength to tangle in her hair, to caress her body. As if he intended to lay her down upon his bed and part her thighs. He kissed her like he were in the throws of passion, rather than death.

It was not like the kiss of a dying man. Or perhaps, he was kissing her precisely like a man about to die, eking the last bit of joy and sensation before it was over.

The passion faded, and then disappeared altogether as his mouth grew still. His hand fell limp in hers, no more than dead weight.

* * *

**A/N: Can you tell I'm more of an 'aftermath of violence' girl? The consequences always have the juiciest bits for emotional and physical angst.**


	16. End of Innocence

**Author's Note: At first, this was going to be strictly flashback, but since you all seem to be freaking out about Matt being dead, it has been extended a bit at the beginning and end.**

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND GORE. Recommend that sensitive readers skip the flashback portion. For anyone with similar (bloodthirsty) proclivities as myself, enjoy!**

* * *

_He is alive. He is still _alive_. _

His body was warm in her arms. The tide of blood continued to flow from his flesh. However, that would hold true had he just expired before her eyes. The blood would still flow for awhile yet, stopping only just before his body grew cold.

But that _wasn't_ going to happen to Matt. Because he had simply lost consciousness. The pain had been too much. The loss of blood... he had blacked out. He had only blacked out.

His chest rose, a ragged breath rattling in his lungs. Emily found herself releasing air she had been holding in her own lungs in a sigh that mirrored the fall of his chest.

See, he _was_ alive.

But for how much longer? They were trapped in this awful place, creatures just beyond the threshold eager to tear them to pieces, set upon their hapless group by a madman.

Emily felt an unfortunately familiar cold spot growing in the pit of her stomach...

* * *

_217 mya..._

Light.

So intense that it burned. All encompassing and soul-searing. Was it the face of God?

Darkness.

But not an empty darkness. For so bright had the light been that it resided here as well, its afterimage an expansive, lingering glow.

Emily opened her eyes slowly, as if it were an unfamiliar motion. The sun blazed overhead. How long had she gazed directly into its unforgiving face? Had she hoped it would purge the evil from her?

Evil.

What evil?

She blinked again. And the world came crashing down upon her consciousness like a harsh wave upon a sandy breaker.

Among the flood of sensations -sights, sounds, smells, pain- there resounded a scream. It was simultaneously a piteous and horrifying sound. Inhuman, visceral, full of agony. And it originated in her own throat.

The inevitable inhalation followed, filling her mouth and nose with a rancor that immediately set her stomach to retching. She closed her mouth and bit back the bile threatening in her throat.

There was a weight in her arms, resting in her lap. Paralyzing terror incapacitated her before she could even make the attempt to recall what she held so close to her body.

When had she closed her eyes? She must have seen the horror when she had blinked them open. What had precipitated her scream?

Oh, she _knew_. She would know, anyway. She had only need search her thoughts and recall from her memory what lay across her knees.

But she could not do so. More than just the answer resided there. Unpleasant, nightmarish reality was etched forever in the core of her being. It must be buried. It must remain hidden from herself for the sake of her own sanity.

Perhaps, a futile endeavour. For she could not continue indefinitely as she was, knelt upon the ground and clutching to her chest something that terrified her without her even being aware of its nature, and blind to the world about her.

She forced uncooperative eyes open and strangled on screams that would not be born of her vocal chords.

In her arms, she cradled a mutilated corpse.

Had she not instinctively known that it once had been a person -a specific person of import to her, a person she had loved like the sister she'd never had, her lifelong friend, formerly her lady's maid- Emily would never have been able to bestow the title of 'person' upon the gruesome mess.

One leg laid splayed awkwardly askance, entirely severed save only a few twisted tendrils of sinew. The right arm was altogether missing. Entrails spilled from the rent abdomen, warm not because the woman was recently deceased but for the blistering heat of the unforgiving sun. Her throat had been torn out and her head lulled against Emily's chest, supported more by Emily's blood-soaked forearm than the remains of the dead woman's neck.

It was repulsive to more than her finer feelings. The sight, the knowledge of the massacred woman wrought an aversion down to her bones. Never had she an inkling of such heartsickness in her entire life. Desperately, Emily desired to be ride of the messy corpse, to be any place it was not.

And yet it was her own arms that could not let go, her own fingers that clamped on the deceased flesh so tightly that her knuckles were likely turned white beneath the brownish red of crusted blood.

_Release her. _Emily willed her body to obey. _Release her._

And her body did obey. It was as if something snapped inside of her. Acting of their own accord, her arms practically threw the dead woman away. Suddenly, the instinctual prerogative had transformed from the need to protect into the need to reject the corpse, the death, the horror. The sickening horror that had welled up inside of her and broke her feeble control like it were a dam attempting to keep a flood of biblical proportions at bay.

She began frantically backing away from Amelia's contorted remains, scuttling along the ground on her bottom, without even the sense to rise to her feet and run.

Behind her back, her hand sunk into something. Something soft, that yielded as if it were sponge. And wet, viscous substances cloyed to her skin, adding another layer to the dried gore already in residence.

It was probably the most foolish thing she had ever done, but she looked at her hand.

She looked at the source of the gore lying upon the ground. In her time with the Lost, she had prepared enough creatures for dinner to recognize the organ. A gullet, or stomach perhaps. Not Amelia's. Hers was still in tact. Only her intestines had spilled out of her body.

For the first time since she had blinked under the glare of the disapproving sun, Emily took in the field surrounding her. The wild grasses had been high, up to her chest while stood and towering over her head while on her knees. And they still were stood tall like a thin wooden fence that wavered in the light breeze. At least, for the most part. Except for several yards in every direction, the grasses had fallen, were matted down in a circle about her. And she was undeniably the epicenter.

The reason why the grass lay broken and fallen flush to the ground was apparent. Had she not been so distraught, she would have noticed right away. Strewn about the space were piles of debris. _Organic_ debris. Chunks of oozing meat, bones with ragged red flesh hanging in tatters. Innards, oozing pools of crimson, yellow and varying degrees of brown and black. And all of it baked in the unwavering embrace of that cruel, superior sun. Airborne scavengers circled as if paying homage before they commenced their feasting.

The stench of it was more than palpable. It was a creature in of itself and it pounced, tackling her to the ground. And then her memory decided to weigh in with a blow that finally defeated her tortured stomach, forcing her onto hands and knees, retching, adding the vacant acid and bile of her stomach into the rank stew cooking upon the grass.

She remembered running. Running through the ancient forest, unseen creatures chasing them down. A glimpse of a far too intelligent eye. A glint of light off a far too sharp claw. A row of menacing teeth. They had thought it a safe epoch for foraging, taking a respite. They had committed that error before. Emily adorned a scar and a rapier as result.

When she had been given a clear view, Emily would've thought the creatures rather birdlike, only reptilian for their dearth of feathers and frightening teeth. That was, if she had possessed the capacity to consider their taxonomy. Her first full glimpse of them had been when they took down Amelia but a few paces behind her. They had swarmed the fallen woman, not like flies, but in retrospect like birds, like chickens at feed.

Amelia's agonized screams of terror and pain -and _death_-echoed in Emily's head, urging her stomach to heave harder. But there was nothing left.

And her friend's horrifying demise, drawn out as she was picked and torn apart, eaten alive, was not even the most sickening part.

At that moment, something inside of Emily, perhaps her sanity, had broken. And it had freed her from morality, from conscious thought, even from her own sentiments and personality. There had only been cold, cruel rage. She had gone mad with it, had become the variety of monster only a human being could channel. Creatures, even those that had just killed her friend, they were not capable of hate. Every action was determined by the instinct to survive. They killed for food, for territory, for mates, for protection. They never killed out of hate, out of the need to sate a desperate, all-consuming rage.

Emily had. It had been as if there always resided a demon within her, buried so deep that she had ne'er the slightest inkling of its existence. Its cage was what had been broken. And it had taken her over. Although, that was too kind. It had been _her_, not just in possession of her. It was a part of her and would always be.

Without a rational thought, she had taken the heavy, sinister knife from her right boot. The rapier would have distanced her too much. She had wanted, no, _needed_, to be close, to feel the warmth of the flesh, the heat of the wet, pungent blood. And she had. Attacking them with a fervor, strength, and ruthlessness, she had not known herself to possess. She had downed three of the creatures, easily the size of her and far more powerful, in the blink of an eye. The other two had scattered back into the woods out of self-preservation.

And if she had stopped there, Emily would not be on her hands and knees in the middle of a killing-field suffering her body's attempts to entirely expel her stomach.

No, she had continued on, propelled by a madness akin to nothing she witnessed before. (And she had seen broken minds. Far too many.) She had hacked at the still twitching, keening creatures until even the knife had proven a barrier her demon could not abide. Her blade cast aside, she had sunk her fingers into the gushing, gaping wounds she had inflicted, burying them into the soft supple meat and had begun to rend them open garnering a gleeful pleasure that had been eagerly consumed by her rage, which only cried for more. She had torn them apart with her bare hands, flagging slightly in the endeavour until a human hand, Amelia's hand, fell out of one of the creatures. The sight had fueled her rage anew, and Emily had torn almost blindly at whatever chunks of flesh she could place her hands upon ripping fistfuls and throwing them at the ground with all of her strength, not unlike a petulant child in full tantrum.

The rage had left her as instantly as it had appeared, draining all emotion with it. Emily had found the remains of her friend, numbly pulled Amelia into her arms, and had looked up to the heavens, as if to accuse the sun sitting passively in the sky while she lost her mind. And no one had done anything to prevent its happening.

Her stomach persisted in its futile attempts to purge her body, far, far past the point where there was anything to expel, tightening into a knot and refusing to allow her lungs to function. Choking, suffocating, she began to panic, to despair of ever drawing breath again, killed by her own body's revulsion. And then her stomach calmed and she took deep draughts of the malodorous air, content just to breathe.

And then she cried. It was a selfish lamentation that grieved the loss of her humanity, her innocence as much as the death of her friend. And at its worst points, it nearly claimed her breath and drowned her as her stomach's fit had done.

Finally, no further tears would come. And a little after that, she decided she could wallow no more. Especially, with the airborne scavengers circling closer and closer, beginning to alight on the ground and pick at the grisly morsels on offer. And even more pressing, the notion that she had no idea how much time passed. Hours, easily. The gateway had been strong when they'd left it glowing merrily at their backs. But that could have changed while she had been carried away by rage, and then by shock and self-pity.

Emily forced herself to her feet. The world whirled about her for a few moments. When it had settled, she ran away from the nightmare. The demon, however, followed her in the form of a shadow that she'd never be rid of...

* * *

_An eternity and no time at all later (in 2011)..._

The cold spot blossomed and grew. She was afraid only briefly of the consequences, of feeling her sanity slip away. And then the demon whispered sweet promises to her, tantalizing and appealing to the outrage in her heart. Fury at the universe for behaving in such an unjust manner.

Her last rational thought was, _Matt _will_ die if he is not removed from the situation presently._

* * *

**A/N: Uh oh… what's Emily going to do? And some Becker POV coming up…**


	17. And So It Ends

**Author's Note: Couldn't leave Becker entirely out… Didn't know I was going so dark with this one until I was there. But to me, the man seems a little haunted (mainly by Sarah's death) and could relate to (my darker version of) Emily.**

**WARNING: Some Violence and Gore (Not on the level of the previous chapter/flashback).  
**

* * *

"Jess, do you have eyes?"

/No, Becker. I'm sorry. The explosion took out the CCTV. Lucky comms are still up. How's Matt?/

"Doesn't look good."

/Backup is on the way. There's a medical team on standby./

"No one comes in."

/But-/

"No one comes in. You got that, Jess."

/Yes./

Her voice was querulous, small. He'd have to make it up to her later. Chocolate, perhaps. No orange. He briefly wondered how she might feel about raspberry before a heavy shoulder slammed against the opposite side of the door with an unwieldy howl and he was jarred from his thoughts.

Damn! He just couldn't risk more lives! Wasn't it enough that they were all bloody well done for?

Lady Merchant rose to her feet. All of the woman's focus had been on Matt, on helping Abby tend to the fatally injured man. _Oh, god, let him live_. Becker had to admit it was not entirely for altruistic reasons he made the plea. It was a selfish purpose that saw his desire for Matt to survive. For he simply could not stand to lose another person. Cutter, Sarah, all of the men he'd trained up just to see fall to creatures, accidents, criminally insane bitches... each and every death haunted him on a daily basis.

He couldn't let go. He didn't know how. And he wasn't sure he'd want to release the pain even if he could.

Sarah. He saw Sarah all of the time. He'd never told anyone that it was more than just waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat having relived her gruesome death in a detail sharper than the reality had been. That he quite literally saw her, sometimes looking over his shoulder when he stared at his haunted eyes in the mirror. Heard her criticisms, her compliments, her genuine, merry laughter when his own thoughts were finally quiet.

Some got the wrong impression about them, he was sure. They whispered in a pitying sort of way about how he had such a hard time dealing with her death, that he had been romantically involved with the archaeologist. But it wasn't the case. She had been a good friend, drawn closer for the loss of and the search for their team mates. And the death of any comrade as close as they had been would've been painful.

The truth was probably sexist, and Sarah would've probably called him a chauvinist for it, but it struck him so very hard in part because she had been the first woman he'd lost. The first woman he'd seen die as a direct result of his failure. He knew it shouldn't have made a difference. But she was soft and gentle, and feminine. And she'd died in his arms, her blood spilling all over his clothes and skin and never washing away.

The door at his back jumped and shuddered, knocking him forward once again, jarring the depressing thoughts from his head. He threw his body against the much-too-quickly-deteriorating barrier. If necessary, he'd barricade the deathtrap of a room with his own body to buy those within just a few more minutes. He would not see things end with more deaths. Not again. The way things were progressing, it would doubtless end with all of their deaths. But he'd die first, if only not to witness the outcome of another of his failures as those who relied upon him were torn to pieces.

The dark-haired Victorian lady was approaching him. He had not expected her to leave Matt's side. If things came down to it, he had fully expected to have to tear her kicking and screaming from the man. It was a terrible invasion, he knew, but he had watched as she cradled Matt's broken body, stroked his cheek, comforted him, kissed him. He had choked down the small pang of jealously, realizing there was something to be said for allowing someone in, to having someone there in a way nobody else could ever be during the worst moments of your life.

But you weren't guaranteed to be on the receiving end. It was just as likely you'd end up being the one getting your heart broken as your lover lay dying before your eyes. It was an agony, an insanity he could not fathom.

But he found it in Emily's large, brown eyes.

Becker had witnessed some horrible things in his relatively short time on the planet, and he'd seen others witness those same things. They all broke in their own way, some more significantly than others. This woman was all jagged edges at the moment. And anyone who got close was going to get cut.

Becker noted the combat knife clutched menacingly in one hand. Likely, quite literally they would get cut.

"Allow me to pass," she said.

"What? Are you insane?" Connor asked from where he stood beside Becker with his back to the door. "It's certain death. More than that. It's extremely certain, undeniably, positively, absolute death."

Emily Merchant appeared to completely ignore the young, terrified man's comments. Instead, she stared Becker down with that disturbing, almost inhuman gaze. She knew who she had worry about getting past. And Becker was not even close to certain he wanted to stand in her way, whether it meant she would die or not.

Because she had undeniably gone to that place he, as with all soldiers, he had been trained to go. The secret of it was that they all fought it. It was as much the significant part of the battle as achieving the objectives set by command. Because if you gave in, if you really went there, you _lost _yourself. Bits of your soul were always the price. He'd like to say that was just sentimental drivel, spouted by weak men that fell to PTSD. But that would be the lie. Anyone who had killed in that ruthless way, fell to the rage (and it inevitably happened no matter how detached one tried to be), could not deny the dark place existed, that it consumed a part of you each time that you'd never get back. It didn't mean you couldn't move on, couldn't heal and be content. But it never left you. You were bound to it. And it _would_ find you again.

Emily had been there before.

He could see it. Not in any particular trait, but he knew. And in her grief and despair, it had reclaimed her. For her sake, maybe it would've been better if they had found Matt... Becker swallowed. No. It would not have made any difference in preventing the emergence of this creature stood before him.

"Allow me to pass," She said again. Cold fury flashed in her eyes. But her voice was steady. "I will see to them. You prepare to remove him from this place."

There was no need to ask who she was talking about. Matt would not want Becker to let her out into the corridor, to be torn apart by those creatures. Which would surely be the outcome, wouldn't it? The insanity, the ruthless rage granted one the capacity to... well, to do _horrible _things without hesitation. It did not, however, give you abilities not already in your possession.

He had seen men gone mad with rage. He had seen them take on impossible tasks and die. He did _not _want to see another woman die. Of course, he would not have to live with it for very long, because very soon they would all join her. And if she were capable of doing the thing she said (a feat he did not believe he -with far more training of this precise nature- could do), then he could worry about dealing with Matt's anger later.

He'd gladly take a severe admonishment, even a fist or two from the man, if only they _all_ got out of here alive.

Becker relented. He was not a fool. Nor was he cruel. He'd not even consider sending Emily out into that cirque du mort if he hadn't seen how she was holding that knife.

Her grip upon the handle was proper and true. The blade lay, flat side against her forearm with the sharp, well-tended edge facing out. With that posture and hold she could strike like a cobra, probably slice his throat clean open before he had even registered the twitch of muscle in her shoulder.

The woman had technique, skill. It did not make what he did next right, but it eased his mind ever so slightly to think she had at least the slimmest of chances. Also, it was very likely that blinded by rage, she _would _have cut his throat had he not yielded.

After the door jumped at his back once more, Becker quickly pulled Connor aside. The window would be short. He only hoped Emily could squeeze through while whatever creature was accosting the door came around for another pass, and that they could shut it behind her without letting the carnage into the tenuous safety of the little room.

With a nod, she cracked the door, looked, opened it just a little wider and disappeared. Becker slammed his back against the barrier once more, throwing Connor into it beside him. The young man cried out in alarm and looked to the captain with wide, accusing eyes.

Connor didn't need to say anything. Becker knew his thoughts, for they were his own.

_You just killed her._

There was hell on the other side of the door. He could barely hear it over the thumping of his heart in his throat. The anxiety wasn't out of fear that they'd soon be done with Emily and return their attention to the main course, but over the knowledge that he had sent a woman to her death. And not a quick one. Predators of this nature didn't go straight for the throat. They didn't care whether their prey was completely dead before they started feeding. He'd seen it.

His stomach lurched.

Connor's hands shook.

Abby had silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

Matt stirred and groaned faintly.

And Dr. Sarah Page began to yell at him.

Her words cut what remained of his heart to shreds.

_How can you let her fight alone, die alone? _

_Are you such a bloody coward to let yet another woman get ripped to pieces in your stead?_

_You bastard! You let me die! And you're doing it again._

_I'm ashamed I ever called you 'friend'._

Oh, god. The pain. He couldn't breathe. Sarah, olive skin gone pale. Dark locks of hair matted with blood. Fingers trembling as they reached out to touch his face. Dark, bright eyes fading...

_Man up, Becker. _It wasn't harsh, but in Sarah's facetious and somehow reassuring tone.

And then he felt those soft fingers brush against his cheek again. Without a word, he handed his EMD to Connor, cocked his shotgun, took a deep breath and entered the corridor.

Captain Becker, surviving three tours in Afghanistan, former-SAS, chaser of anomalies, creature capture specialist, dinosaur hunter, _froze in his tracks_. Two raptors lay still to his left. A crumpled mass of some sort of insectoid creature was still twitching off to the right, yellow slime oozing in a large pool upon the tile. Several smaller, indeterminate corpses basically ensured that no one could walk a straight line down the corridor. While surprising and impressive, none of the repulsive mess of bleeding, twitching bodies were enough, not even en masse, to strike the soldier stupid.

It was the terrifying sight at the end of the corridor that had incapacitated him. Should he be so surprised, really? He had seen that dark fury in her eyes.

Emily was sitting astride a future predator's back, plunging her blade into the base of its neck. Clasped in both fists, she pulled it out, raised it above her head, and plunged it down with a visceral cry of anger. Blood splattered. She pulled it out again, still screaming like a valkyrie riding into battle. Blood spewed like a font from the wound, drenching her face and arms. She plunged it in again.

The creature bucked and twisted, clawed at its back, but it could not throw her with its frantic thrashing, could not reach her with its long, grey arms. Its normally quick movements grew sluggish as the woman (if she could be called that) hacked at its brainstem.

Had Emily known about the neural clamp, would she have even gone for the arguably quicker kill of incapacitating the metal device affixed to the top of the predator's skull? Becker doubted it.

The darkness had taken her over, and it had an insatiable thirst for blood and pain.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity (but Becker's internal clock informed him was mere seconds), the creature collapsed onto the floor and expired. Emily's head snapped up, dark hair now entirely loosed form its plait whipped about with the violence of the movement. She was awe-inspiring in the most horrifying way imaginable. He'd never be able to see her as the reserved Victorian woman again, not when he'd beheld the demon before him. For her eyes...

_Oh, fuck._

She was looking for something else to kill. And he was the only one left standing. And that was the entire problem with giving in to the darkness. The rage was all-consuming and stripped away your humanity. He'd no doubt it would return to her. You always came back to yourself eventually. And that was the hell of it. The remorse always washed over you like a wave and began to drown you. Only you never had the luxury of actually drowning, dying. He supposed it was more like being waterboarded...

But no time for the unpleasant memories that train of thought dredged up. If he couldn't get her to snap out of it now, that blood-soaked knife in her hand would have the taste of something different, of the ARC soldier variety.

"Emily." His voice sounded strained, desperate, pathetic. Not at all calming, reassuring as it needed to be. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Emily, you've done it. We can get Matt out of here now."

She blinked, not at the mention of her own name, but at the mention of the man who was dying behind a door a few meters and a million miles away from where she had been.

"Captain Becker?" The woman rose shakily to her feet, the knife clattering to the floor. "Oh, god..."

Without hesitation, Becker ran to her, grabbed her and held her tight to his chest. This was the worst part. Realizing what you'd done after the madness left you hollow. It was the worst kind of feeling, so numb and empty that you wouldn't be opposed to jumping off the roof of a tall building, or a low one. Another reason he never would let himself go there again. Because if you kept putting yourself through that, eventually, you wouldn't be able to find a reason not to jump. Or put the gun to your temple. Or the knife to your wrists.

Emily was screaming into his flak vest, so he only tightened his grip. If he had been alone that time in Kabul, had time to think about anything but surviving when the reality came calling...

The screams stopped, which would have to be good enough. Tentatively, he released her without fully letting go, in case she needed further subduing.

"Let's get the others," he said, looking down into warm, brown eyes that were a relief to meet. Emily nodded.

She was beyond traumatized, but she had tamed her demon. It would remain inside of her. Becker was not so naive as to believe that it wasn't the same demon that could be found in every single man, woman and child, that capacity to commit violence on a profoundly revolting level. They all had it. It was part of being human, he supposed, _even though we'd like to think better of ourselves..._

He kicked at the downed creatures as he passed, just to be certain, lagging behind Emily as she ran back to the side of the man she loved. There was no doubt as to the nature of her attachment. Protecting Matt had been enough reason for her to allow the darkness in. Becker had only ever gone to that place out of duty, because he had been ordered to do dark things.

But to _love_ someone that much...

Becker sighed. He turned on his comm.

"Jess, we should be clear. Tell teams B and C to proceed with caution. We're coming out."

* * *

**A/N: Some 'comfort' coming up next, to go with all the hurt ;-)**


	18. Not the End?

**Author's note: Sorry this took a little longer in posting than anticipated, considering this was basically done (and some of it had been written way back near the start of this endeavour). I personally blame Steampunk croquet and the absinthe this past weekend…**

* * *

_Twelve Days Later...__(give or take)_**  
**

Pressure.

Like a heavy woolen blanket soaked through with water wrapped about his mind, weighing it down, impeding its attempts to stir and wake.

Slowly. Slowly, thought began to emerge. Memories.

Severe, burning agony. A pain so profound every neuron had been screaming in his head.

The touch of an angel. A taste of heaven.

And then nothing.

Wait. Go back.

Emily. Emily holding him close, looking so beautiful. The most radiant sight he'd ever laid eyes upon. Even with the barely contained tears glistening in her eyes. Perhaps, _because_ of the tears. Tears she fought not to shed. Tears for a dying man.

Was he dead?

He tried to see.

Grey.

Well, that could go either way.

He blinked slowly until the haze gained definition. It was a room, dimly lit and painted a bland sort of off-white. The arrangement of the ceiling tiles, the rectangular layout. The one glass wall that held a door. He knew this place.

It was one of the infirmary rooms in the ARC. So... probably not dead, then.

His body began to lodge complaints, confirming his suspicions about still residing in the land of the living. He was fairly certain bodies stopped making any sort of pronouncements when they were dead.

His muscles complained that they were stiff and achey. His eyes complained that the light was too bright. His stomach complained that it was empty. His skin complained that it felt dirty, coated in the remnants of a cold sweat. His brain complained that his body wouldn't shut up.

Of all the physical complaints that accompanied finding himself to be alive, temperature was surprisingly not one. In fact, there was considerable warmth coming from the lump curled against him within the narrow bed. There was a mass of dark hair pooled upon his shoulder. Delicate fingers rested against his neck as if they had been confirming the existence of his pulse. And familiar curves were moulded to his side; the source of the heat warming him in the otherwise cool room.

_Ugh._

The effort of the slightest movement was an ordeal. When he did manage to accrue the energy, he was so weak that it appeared as if he were moving his hand in slow motion when he went to brush some chestnut curls aside, revealing the soft pale cheek of a serene face.

_Emily._

Lady Emily Merchant. No. That was wrong. He had sent 'Lady Merchant' home to her native time. Emily, _his_ Emily had come back to him. Emily, whom he had saved from Ethan's twisted attempt at revenge. Emily, who had smiled at him, teased him, flirted with him. Emily, who had traversed time, suffered god-only-knew, to bring him the information he sought. She was his saviour, his liberator. She had freed him of his burden in the best possible way, that of its resolution. She had given him peace. And so much more.

She stirred, shifting into his touch ever so slightly, before her eyes shot open -big, round and the richest of browns.

"Matt!"

Tears filled her bright eyes, causing them to shine. Her hand moved from resting at his neck to stroking his cheek. And it felt amazing. _She_ was amazing. The fact that she was there, with him, was beyond belief -that he had met her at all, a woman out of time, that she had come back to him. And she was looking a him with such adoration as to make him feel lightly embarrassed and extremely unworthy.

He wanted to tell her that everything was fine, to ease away her tears, to ask her to stop looking at him like he'd come back from the dead. Unfortunately, he could not do so. His tongue was like lead in his dry mouth. His throat so parched, it felt as if his vocal cords were turned to sand as much as his mouth was a desert. He tried working up saliva to grease his nonfunctional tongue, but it seemed futile.

And then Emily was holding to his lips a cup taken off a nearby tray. Water. Cold. Pure. There was nothing in life quite like quenching a desperate thirst. He held the refreshingly cool liquid in his mouth for a moment, savouring the sensation before swallowing and permitting it to wash over his parched throat. A flood of relief. The cold water also took the edge off the grogginess in his brain.

"Thank you."

He smiled and touched her cheek again. The details were still foggy, but he knew they had prevented the horrible future, his world, from coming to be. And he no longer felt guilty for entertaining his attraction to the woman.

Why was it so difficult to think?

The memory of an explosion -heat and pressure, thunderous sound at his back- flashed through his mind. Oh, that was probably why he felt like he'd been stomped on by an allosaurus.

He must have been out for a while.

"How long?" he asked. The confused look he received did not seem entirely sincere. It looked more as if she did not wish to consider the circumstances surrounding his question. Tears brimmed her eyes.

"Nearly a fortnight," she said after a moment. _Fortnight? _That was... _dear god_, almost two weeks he had been unconscious. "They had you moved to the ARC after they were certain you were stable."

Her cheeks turned pink.

"I think they did it more for my sake than yours, so that I would sleep. I had refused to leave. And while I think having Captain Becker around intimidated them into accepting my presence, the nurses were quite irate over continually having to remove my person from your bed."

Matt laughed, picturing some of the only persons possibly as stubborn as Emily attempting to reason with the tenacious woman against something she had set her mind to. He coughed. It was a cliché, but there was a reason why laughing turned into coughing fits in the injured. His muscles were tight and sore, his diaphragm weak from abdominal muscles thrown out of alignment. He tried to sit up slightly, a painful endeavour made moderately easier by Emily's aiding him. She rearranged pillows behind him so that he could sit up a bit without having to strain to hold himself upright. There was a brief moment of hesitation as she withdrew her hand from behind him. Her body was leaning across his, her face mere centimeters from his.

Emily licked her lips.

And then they were kissing. He wasn't sure who had initiated it. And he didn't really care as it quickly escalated. Her lips were soft and moist, her mouth warm and delicious. His body was fully awake within a few seconds of her tongue finding his and he could no longer recall what had been bothering him. The pleasant memory of her body seemed like a vague dream compared to the current reality of Emily's embrace.

She wasn't close enough. Why was she so far away?

Adrenaline was a brilliant thing. Hands that had been previously sluggish responded to his commands instantly, grabbing her hip and back and pulling her curves flush to him. She gasped and arched, exposing her throat; an invitation he eagerly accepted with kisses and nips at the soft, pale flesh. Her body began to grind against his, an urgent rhythm bespeaking an instinctual need. One which he reciprocated in kind.

Ouch.

He grunted, the outcry over the sharp jab of pain muffled against Emily's skin. She started, hastily pulling away from him and apologizing profusely.

Her face was flushed, her eyes bright -god she was gorgeous- but she worried her lower lip.

"I had forgotten," she said. "Really, it is your own fault for kissing me in such a manner."

Matt raised his eyebrows. The kissing had been his fault? That's not quite how he remembered it, but he wasn't above taking credit for the pleasurable encounter. In actuality, he was rather disappointed it had ended so abruptly.

And why exactly had it?

Oh, right. Severe, stabbing pain across his stomach and side, of unknown origin. He raised the hem of the scrub top he'd been dressed in. White bandages swathed his abdomen, hiding whatever injury had pained him. He looked to Emily, her eyes now wide and glistening with tears as she perched beside him. He noted she was carefully avoiding touching him, as if he were a fragile ceramic vase she had just knocked about, barely coming short of shattering.

"You truthfully do not remember?"

Matt shook his head.

"You were..." She trailed off, looked away and seemed to pause a moment to collect herself. "...injured by some debris. The..." A look of concentration crossed her face, one he recognized as her attempting to process ideas alien to her 19th century world. "..._generator_ had to be destroyed. You were caught by the edge of the explosion."

She took a deep breath. "I did not think you would live."

The pain in her eyes cut him to the heart.

"Oh, Emily." He reached up, cupping her soft, round, flushed cheek in his hand. Capturing his hand with hers, she leaned into the caress, kissing his palm in a sweet, unassuming manner that was somehow profoundly erotic. He ran his other hand up under her shirt and caressed the scar marring the otherwise smooth skin of her stomach. "Guess we'll have a matching set."

Wait a minute. She was dressed in a set of scrubs like his own.

"You weren't hurt as well?" he asked, noticing for the first time the bruising on her arm, and the red marks along her scalp. She glanced down at the scrub top whose hem he still held.

"Nothing remotely serious," she said with a reassuring smile. It faded. She looked a bit queasy. "My clothes were quite spoilt with blood, so they gave me these. I'm afraid your old trousers were beyond saving, but I managed to salvage your coat."

She gave him a hopeful smile.

He laughed lightly. "Don't worry about it, Emily."

Lying back, he pulled her down with him, against her protestations about his being harmed further. Wrapping his arms about her, he held her close to him, kissing her cheek lightly. Whimpering in a pleased manner, she cuddled into his side, nuzzling his neck just below the ear and eliciting from him similar noises that he had no idea he were capable of making.

Someone cleared their throat. They both jumped.

"I'm not even going to bother asking whether I'm interrupting something," Lester said from where he was stood just inside the doorway. "Because, clearly, I am."

Matt was happily surprised that Emily remained snug to his side. He had expected the woman raised in a society so intent upon decorum to hastily withdraw to a more respectable distance and demeanor. She merely shifted a bit to better see Lester. Perhaps (and with her earlier admission he thought it rather likely) the man had witnessed her affection for Matt manifested in a similar tableau before.

"Glad to see you're back with us, Mr. Anderson," Lester said, apparently doing his best to ignore the intimate nature of the pair. Which really meant that he appeared a bit put off and didn't know exactly where to look. Matt found that he did not care enough to push Emily away simply to place Lester at ease.

"You'd be happy to learn, I'm certain, that the ministry is currently looking for a new corporate partner to help run the ARC. Shockingly enough, I have even heard mention that it could be funded fully by the government. As for Philip Burton and Prospero..." He made a vague gesture, the specific nature of which was entirely incomprehensible. But the look on James Lester's face was a billboard. They would no longer have to worry about that bastard or his aspirations... The confirmation of his hopes made the dull aches and complaints of his body subside entirely. They really had succeeded. It was really over.

Lester's smile did not fade even as he changed topics.

"Once the doctors give you a going over, you're free to go home."

That sounded amazing... except the doctors part. Maybe he could just sneak out. Or not. Being distracted as he'd been, Matt hadn't noticed the various tubes attaching his body to bulky medical equipment he'd rather not drag about with him. How painful could yanking out one's IV without a notion as to procedure be?

Knowing Emily, in her currently overprotective state, she would not even let him make the attempt.

Matt sighed and resigned himself to being prodded and poked, and not by the hands he'd prefer. Hands that were caressing his chest and resting -no, not resting, making lazy circles- upon his thigh. God, did the woman even know what she were doing at the moment?

"Of course, we'll expect you to make an appearance in a few days for a full debrief," Lester said. He played with his shirt cuffs. Perhaps, waiting for a response? Collecting his thoughts? Or his _emotions_?

It was a nice sentiment, a novelty to see an emotional Lester, but at the moment, Matt really, really wanted him gone. Or for Emily to stop touching him in _that_ way. Okay, so he never wanted her to take her hands off from him, _ever_. But still...

"Thanks, Lester," Matt said, trying to focus on the physical discomfort rather than warm, tingly sensations Emily's presence was conjuring. And there seemed to be a fair amount of discomfort now that he considered it.

As soon as James Lester exited the room with what could be considered a _very_ warm nod and a hint of a smile, Matt shifted uncomfortably, like a small child who'd been dressed in his least favourite of clothes, the Sunday Best.

A catheter? Really? He supposed that seeming how he had been in a coma for the past couple of weeks, he had likely not been quite able to answer any calls of nature himself. But still... He wriggled again, wincing. It wasn't so much painful as it was just completely uncomfortable.

Emily gave him a sympathetic look, as if she could read his mind and knew exactly which complaint had set him to fidgeting. It was a bit unsettling, how he seemed an open book to her. He had never let anyone get close enough to learn his painstakingly hidden tells. Of course, Emily had had a line on him right from the very beginning, hadn't she?

"You should have seen the tube they had inserted into your chest to drain the wound." She shuddered.

Well, that was quite the mood killer, Although how they managed to become so aroused in their present states was beyond him. Emily was looking exhausted to the point reserved only for the undead, with dark circles under eyes and a noticeable hollow to her normally full cheeks. And despite her assurances that she had not been injured, she looked rather battered on the whole. Matt himself felt as exhausted as Emily looked despite the two-week long nap, the surge of adrenaline (and other hormones) from her presence, and the euphoria of having prevented the apocalypse. Not to mention, there were tubes and wires in all sorts of inconvenient places (it was a wonder he'd not noticed before whilst messing about with Emily).

Best the carnal interest had dulled to its general baseline tension he seemed to feel whenever Emily was close. Not a bad tension, though. Just one filled with potential. Which he shouldn't think about because here were the medical staff to give him a rough time...

He almost looked forward to the unpleasantness to come, because then he'd be free, free to do whatever he liked, free to drag Emily back to his flat, back to his bed, into his arms...

* * *

**A/N: Believe it or not, I'm not quite done playing with these two yet…**


	19. Somewhere Between the Beginning & End

**Author's Note: So after becoming so very absorbed by this fic, I couldn't just slap a sugary cliché ending on it. Thus, it's going to take a couple more chapters to finish up…**

**WARNING: Scenes of post-smuttiness**

* * *

Still shuddering with the ecstasy coursing through her body, Emily collapsed atop her lover -naked, coated in sweat and entirely spent. She laid her cheek against Matt's chest, reveling in its rise and fall, the hastened beating of his heart echoing in her head. A shiver ran down her spine when he groaned and it rumbled through his chest, into her, and reverberated throughout her body.

The vocalization startled her a bit from her state of pure contentment.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked from where she lay melted against him with her head still resting on his chest. She found herself quite unable to muster the energy to even lift her head.

When she had collapsed onto him, some part of her mind not consumed by the dizzying fruits of their pleasurable labour had retained its wits. She had shifted slightly to one side, to avoid putting her weight on his still rather fresh abdominal wound. But she could have unknowingly pressed against tender flesh in her incoherent state.

He chuckled and it found harmonies inside of her breast.

"No. Far from it."

"I am glad."

She smiled and kissed the damp down of hair on his chest. The texture made for an odd sensation against the soft, sensitive skin of her lips. but was by no means an unpleasant one. She nuzzled into him, contented whimpers resounding in the back of her throat.

Oh, how she adored this man. More than he would ever know, she imagined. And she had almost lost him. Emily pushed the incapacitating thought aside. What was done was done. And he was still here, in her arms, solid and real, warm, breathing, making soft happy sounds that mirrored her own, his fingers running gently over her skin...

They probably should not have engaged in the activity they just had done. She knew he was still weak, recovering. When they had returned to his apartments, they'd fallen into a heavy dreamless sleep upon his bed (barely retaining the thoughtfulness to remove shoes and otherwise fully clothed). Upon waking several hours later, she had kissed him. Quite gently, chastely on her part. Matt, however, had answered the embrace in that fervent, embroiling manner typical to him.

By the time they had broken apart for breath, he'd had her lying on her back, his body between her legs, his mouth and hands covering more places than she had been able to identify. She'd barely the mind to recall the doctor's cautions against physical exertion in his state as Matt paid her such attentions that would heat the blood of the Snow Queen herself. Somehow she had managed to turn their bodies about, perhaps because Matt was not at his full physical prowess, or as she was more liable to believe, he had been quite amenable to her taking the lead in their carnal dance.

Emily had always been quite the equestrian and boasted a fine seat. But never had she such a marvelously intoxicating ride in her life... She was still tingling in the most intimate of places and utterly exhausted.

Yet when Matt surprised her with a whispered request that she talk to him, she pushed aside the sweet call of slumber and began telling him... _everything_.

…

There really was something quite unsettling in continually waking to a studious blue gaze. But, Emily supposed, if she wished to be with the man, she would have to learn to tolerate all aspects of his nature.

"Must you stare in that manner?"

Matt smiled, his eyes still lingering upon her form from where he was sat upon the edge of the bed.

"I do believe I must."

She lifted her eyes heavenward and huffed in exasperation. He had seemed to taken to mocking her, albeit it in a genial sort of way, for her manner of speech. Emily was well and truly aware that the Queen's English had suffered great casualties in the time since she had learned the proper elocution of the tongue, but it was simply no excuse for her to abandon diction and grammar.

"Would that be for me?"

She changed the subject, indicating the cup he held. As means of answer, he offered it to her. Sitting up to accept the glorious gift of hot tea, Emily realized something rather dreadful. Due to the previous evening's activities, she was entirely sans clothing. The thin linen slipped from her chest as she took the heavy porcelain cup in both hands, exposing her naked flesh down to the waist. It was rather a vulnerable position to find one's self, especially when one's lover was fully clothed and additionally wearing a serious expression.

Matt's gaze lingered about her indecent self, momentarily unfocused and hungry, as if he were not intimately familiar with what resided before his eyes and were contemplating becoming intimately acquainted with her breasts.

"I should be the one bringing you tea," Emily said as means of distracting him. Not that she didn't appreciate his more amorous attentions. It was simply she was uncertain that the majority of his body could cover the expense of what his urges wished to purchase. Or to be completely honest, she had some doubt as to whether she could bear another exhaustive romp with the man if she wished to be coherent for the rest of the day.

"You should be abed, resting."

She had expected him to respond with some lewd comment, or explicit description of how he'd spend his time in bed. However, it was the serious expression that returned.

"We need to talk, when you're ready," he said, rising to his feet and leaving her alone and perplexed in his bed.

...

"Please, sit down."

Matt adorned an expression as serious as she had ever witnessed upon the man. Should he not be happy, relieved for the fortuitous resolution of his life's endeavour?

He had arranged it for her to sit in the chair opposite him. There were several feet in between them. The distance felt like miles to Emily. She looked at him expectantly whilst attempting to quell the nerves in her stomach. It was ridiculous, and she partly despised it for being so, but this man _was_ her happiness. And at the moment he appeared to possess none.

"I think it would be best if you stayed at the ARC until they can find you a place of your own."

She had thought she had known pain before. It was practically a constant companion over the past few years. And there had been severe, shocking encounters with both physical discomfort and emotional agony. She had thought Charlotte's death to be the worst. And then Matt had sent her back to her time, pushed her away. It had been a dull, nagging ache eating away at her insides, only cured when she had finally laid eyes upon him again. Then there was that _incident_ that had given her a scar on her belly, vivid nightmares, and her first taste of real, nearly fatal physical pain. None of it had compared to the sickening experience of losing Amelia in such a horrifying manner, and then of nearly losing Matt like she almost had. But to suffer the loss of him while he remained alive, to know that she could be with him but for the fact that he did not _want _her. It was both a cold, hollow spot and a chokingly tight ache in her chest.

She removed herself from the chair, whether to extricate herself from his presence and hide her tears or to throw herself at his feet, she wasn't certain.

"Emily, wait."

His feet, her body decided without consulting her. She needed to be close to him, to touch him, to understand. He stopped her outstretched hand with words.

"Don't touch me. Please."

What was so repugnant about her, that the touch he found so agreeable the previous night, he could no longer abide?

"If you touch me, I'm done for. I'm not going to be able to think of anything else but holding you, kissing you, making love to you."

So, it was not that she disgusted him. Emily nearly sighed in relief but for his continued adornment of that bloody awful serious look.

"And that's the entire problem. Neither of us are thinking straight. It didn't even occur to me to take precautions last night."

Precautions? Precautions? Oh, right. Emily blushed slightly. She did not know why, considering that she was as familiar with Matt's body as he was hers. And yet even contemplating their physical intimacy brought a flush to her cheeks. His voice, low and gravelly with lust did not help matters...

"You just felt so _bloody_ good."

His focus wavered, no doubt distracted by the recollection that had lent the lustful edge to his tone. The memory of their entwined bodies commandeered her own thoughts, reliving that moment when she brought them both to the unearthly, transcending ecstasy that nearly fused their souls.

Apparently, the experience had been as profoundly memorable for him as it was seared into her heart. It took him several moments to recompose his thoughts, in which Emily waited patiently despite the unease in her stomach.

"I might have gotten you pregnant," he said, serious look firmly in place. Perhaps edged a bit with his own unease. When he spoke again, it was soft, barely audible, a thought unwittingly uttered aloud. "That's just what this situation needs..."

"If you recall, I am not capable of bearing children."

Emily was desperate to allay any worries that plagued him of which she were capable of resolving, for she saw the pain this conversation gave him. Which led her to ponder once again the _reason _for his doing this.

"Did you ever think that perhaps the problem was with your husband?"

She was grateful for the compliment. In her time, it was _always_ the woman's fault. She had told Matt all of this last night, after their physical intimacy when he had continued to hold her flush again him and they conversed softly until sleep claimed them. He had made no judgments then, only listened to the history of her life.

Matt seemed eager to press onward, perhaps before he lost the will to do so.

"Emily, I'm not saying you have to tell me, have to tell anyone, but you have to deal with the traumas you've been through."

Dredging up the bad memories would not aide her. She _had_ dealt with them, when they occurred and her rage was released, and during the subsequent days when she cried until her skin was raw. Her only consolation had been the aspiration to see Matt again. Doubtless, he would say that was the problem, that she had become preoccupied by a man she barely knew. But if those hard years had engendered any knowledge upon her person, it was that instinct was nearly always correct. And some events were simply out of one's control altogether. Thus, she had come to embrace what she felt and fight the battles in which she _could_ make a difference. And that was the paradigm that had led her to the man she loved.

Matt, much to the contrary, had lived the entirety of his life with a weight on his shoulders too heavy for one man -or even a dozen- to bear. His approach to living had been dictated by one question alone, 'How can I repair the future?'

She had seen it in his restrained and carefully controlled demeanour since the moment they met. In truth, she had likely been in the unique position to discover his facade, if only because of the fractures she seemed to unwittingly cause it. Even then, it was apparent that he could not determine a manner in which to deal with profound emotions. He had learned not to _feel_, not with his heart anyway. And Emily supposed he could not 'unlearn' such deeply ingrained practices in a matter of days. For that was all it had been for him. Days.

Emily nodded, tried to smile.

It wounded her deeply, but she understood. There was a hole in Matt's soul where his sense of duty and purpose had been. And there was a hole in his heart where his home had been preserved. In being so determined, he had never considered the consequences of his actions in any real way, how those parts of himself would be torn asunder upon its resolution. And she could read the guilt in the set of his shoulders, the grim angle of his jaw, as much as in the eyes that avoided hers. He felt that he'd been using her, like some sort of salve for a wound she could never heal. No matter how liberal the applications. No matter her willingness to be used.

She took his hand and squeezed it.

Finally he looked at her again. He was lost. He was lost and she wanted to be his beacon home, but he would not let her be used in such a manner. His eyes drifted to their joined hands, settled on the now worn gold band still holding her finger hostage. The sadness in his eyes deepened and this time Emily was the one to look away.

He was right. They couldn't do this. Her problems were as profound and debilitating as his own.

She could never offer him anything permanent. She had accepted the fact that she could never be his wife and consoled herself with the notion of remaining his lover for as long as he'd have her. But he needed more than that, or nothing at all. At this moment, his world was a mess, and the complications of a relationship with a broken woman would only worsen circumstances.

It seemed that they both had more searching to do before they found themselves, let alone a home.

* * *

**A/N: I've severely damaged these two characters on this little jaunt, and I couldn't just reconcile a pure fluff ending happening so very quickly (even though they want to be together) with the baggage they no doubt would possess.**


	20. HOME: The End of the Long Road

**Author's Note: Considering how Emily-centric this little venture was, it first seemed that this chapter should be from her POV. However, after a little consideration, we just had to be inside Matt's head. We already know how Emily feels, but just what the heck is going on inside of his muddled mind?**

* * *

_Three Months later..._

He was a _fecking idjot_, as his mother would say. Not that his mother had ever used that kind of language. Or that he would be allowed to hear it, if she had. Or that he had ever eavesdropped on the heated conversations between his parents. But if she had employed such language, she would've used it now, to describe her _fecking idjot _of a son. Had she seen or heard of his behaviour, Moira Anderson would have smacked her son up the side of the head. Maybe even gone for the spoon...

And she'd be right to do so. Except his mother might no longer even exist (ever would exist). Or if she did, she'd never be the same woman who had raised him. That was a pain as fresh as it had been when the truth of it had initially hit him a few months ago. Matt Anderson and the ARC team had changed the future, his home and his past dying with it. Although, it all still existed in his mind, in his memories. And his mother was giving him her most reproachful glare. Which upon consideration, was far more harsh than any foul language.

His grip on the steering-wheel tightened, his knuckles turned almost white. He could feel Emily's gaze, likely concerned, lingering briefly upon him. He concentrated on the road. Because _she_ was the problem. No. Untrue. _He_ was the problem. His confusion. His uncertainty. The sense of not belonging in the world. He was no stranger to these feelings. But before, he always had his mission, 'the greater good' to run his life, demand all his focus and energy. Now he felt like a bit of discarded paper blowing about in the wind, finding no purchase and only brief periods of respite.

Emily was one of those brief respites. She kept trying to catch him, to pluck him from the tumultuous breezes. But he was always torn free of her grasp. And it was worse than that, for it wasn't by some unseen forces, but by _his_ doing.

He had vowed to stay away from her until he got his head on straight, knowing he would only damage the woman further in his state. And _fecking idjot _that he was, he'd done no such thing. Done worse, in fact.

Their working relationship was fine. Lester had almost been -gasp- eager to take her on at the ARC, and she was a most capable addition to the team, smoothly adapting to their methods and cohesion. Jess had practically adopted the Victorian woman as her personal project. And Emily even came to him, without a hint of resentment or frustration about what had passed between them, to get his help understanding things beyond the knowledge of her time. And whilst discussing such banalities as toaster ovens, mobile phones, the history of the transistor radio, all the awkward tension seemed to fade away into a comfort and ease he rather enjoyed.

He enjoyed it too much.

He enjoyed _her _too much.

Since their working relationship seemed healthy enough, Matt had (stupidly) said 'Emily, with me" when they'd headed out to contain an anomaly that morning. And so here he was suffocating from the intoxicating scent of her in the enclosed space of the truck cab. Just the two of them. Or three of them, if you counted the presence of that bloody awful tension that had risen from the grave time and again. Matt could've sworn he had put it down for good. At least they had bludgeoned it quite thoroughly Friday night last.

_Fecking idjot._

Fridays were pub nights for the ARC employees... Sometimes the whole team would stop for a pint after a hard week. But more often than not, it was just the two lonely, damaged men drinking in silence -Captain Becker and Matt Anderson. With the edge taken off, and the boundaries he had painstakingly established blurred, Matt inevitably made his way to Jess' flat, seeking out the bed in her guest room, the one occupied by Emily. And damn the woman, Emily never refused him, though she really should.

The guilt in the morning. It knotted his stomach even now, nearly a week after the last hangover had faded. And it wasn't over regretting the nights spent with Emily. It was remorse for having to leave her in the morning. If it had just been about sex, he would've always left afterward without a second thought. But it wasn't. What drove him to her arms after a pint or two was the loneliness. When he felt so damn isolated from the world that he wanted nothing more than to be held, he went to Emily. Her heartbeat, her warmth, her scent...

Matt cracked the window, hoping to escape the temptation that was strawberry shampoo, laundry soap, fresh air and the unique scent of Emily's skin. It wasn't overpowering. Anyone else probably wouldn't even note a single of the scents comprising the aroma, unless they were specifically searching for them. Unfortunately for Matt, though, they had imprinted upon his brain.

Also most unfortunately, the wind rustling through the enclosed space from the cracked window only served to stir the air around, gusts of eau de Emily tickling his nose, and other parts of him.

The _Fecking Idjot _hadn't wanted to hurt her, hadn't wanted to make promises he couldn't keep. But he couldn't stay away no matter how hard he tried. And he had fallen in love with her despite his fears that he was only using her affection to try to fill a void that would forever remain empty.

He pulled up to the kerb, killed the engine and paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. He was in no mindset to face an anomaly and displaced, potentially hostile creatures.

"What are your thoughts today?"

Emily's voice startled him, as she shifted to face him from the passenger's seat. He had almost forgotten she was there, which was odd, considering that her presence had been the impetus for the thoughts that plagued and exasperated him.

"By the sounds of it, there's a pack of labrador-sized theropods on the loose. Basic raptor containment protocols should work," Matt said.

"That's not what I meant." Her voice melodic, edged with amusement rather than contradiction. Instantly, it lifted his miserable thoughts, knowing how the smile lit up her face without even looking at her. Damn his pathetically mercurial weakness of spirit.

Matt sighed. He knew what she meant. He had opted to ignore it, as he always did when she asked. And she asked almost everyday. There was no pressure in it. It was almost a game. And at this point, if she didn't ask, he'd probably not know how to proceed. It was her way of letting him know that she still... well, that she still _wanted _him, wanted what he was afraid of giving her, of taking from her, of sharing with her.

"Might I speak honestly for a moment?"

Well, this was new. It had been months. Months since he'd first chased her through the anomaly. Months since he sent her back to her time. Months since she returned to him and he took her to his bed. Months since he had pushed her away... And in all that time, she had waited patiently. She hadn't moved on, however much the masochist in him wished her to do so. And she had never complained or intimated she wanted more from him than crisply friendly banter at work, Friday night fucks, and agonizingly wistful looks. She only ever asked for his thoughts, letting him know that when he was ready, she'd be there.

_Fecking idjot! _She was _the_ perfect woman for him. Not without her flaws, but his perfect compliment. She found his pain when he made every effort to bury it so deep he himself did not even know it was there. She called him out when his stubborn side took too firm a hold. She made him laugh. She held him close at night when the world was terrifyingly empty.

He had been afraid, a coward. Afraid to accept her, to think of her as his, for what little he had ever possessed had inevitably been lost to him. The only other woman he had ever loved (his mother), the only time he'd known innocence, the only place of rest, the only place he had ever called home... gone...

Choking on the revelations, of the pain he'd been ignoring, of his fear of letting Emily in, of his complete idiocy, Matt could only nod his head.

"I think it is one matter to think one shall never return home." Her voice was soft, almost sad. "But it is an entirely different matter to _know_ there is no longer a home to go to."

Slender fingers played over his wrist and palm, her hands taking his into a wonderfully comforting embrace. Her grasp was warmer than her hands tended to be as a rule, but as firm and assured as ever.

"I think, that though neither of us was born to this time, it is our home, where we belong," she said. The patience and acceptance with which she had always approached him over the last few months remained in the soft features of her face. But there was something else in her eyes. The traces of worry and guilt he had found there previously, that confirmed his decision to keep his distance... They no longer resided there.

He looked down at their entwined hands.

Something was different.

He turned his hand over, shifting hers along with his own. Her left hand. It was missing something. Something that had plagued him with guilt even though it had never kept his hands from her body, his tongue from her mouth.

Emily no longer wore her wedding ring.

He vaguely remembered Jess mentioning having discovered that Emily's husband had her declared dead and had remarried. Maybe that's what Emily needed to let go of her own guilt and past responsibilities.

She was a free woman. And she was looking at him with a confident desire that informed him she knew precisely what she wanted and was willing to give _everything_ for it.

Matt smiled.

"Emily, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

"I would like that very much."

She returned his smile and he went all warm inside.

_You _fecking idjot! _Emily's right. You have a home. And it's here._

Matt leaned over and kissed Emily on the cheek. And then they went off to round up some dinosaurs.

* * *

**A/N: About time you got your shit together, Matt! **

**Ahem. Anyway, there is one more little epilogue/prologue bit that I need to write (although, whether you need to read it is probably debatable…)  
**


	21. EPILOGUE: The Beginning and The End

**Author's note: Well, here we have it… A little longer than I had intended for what's sort of an epilogue. Well, Epilogue Plus, I guess (the 'plus' being the fluff I couldn't stomach earlier)…**

* * *

_1867..._

How strange!

For a sensation one formerly held in such familiar terms to be rendered alarmingly foreign. Yes, Emily Merchant was quite bewildered about how to calm her racing heart. It used to be standard form to be taken by such a state on a daily basis. But in the past few months, nothing so shocking as poorly prepared grouse had threatened her tranquil life.

Tranquil was not quite the word she'd use for it. It was a bore.

Prior to dashing through that first gateway, she had been unhappy with her life. Now, now she was downright miserable. It was impossible to feign interest in the social niceties, to play her role as wife to a lord. She managed somehow, perhaps from that slim hope that she might have the opportunity to run off once again. Or perhaps it was the faded memory of those arms wrapped tightly about her, of those sad blue eyes.

Yet, she had nowhere else to go. And the Merchant family had accepted her fable, if only to avoid scandal. She had suffered a brain injury in the ruckus that day, wandered off, was taken in by a charitable sisterhood of nuns -catholic yes, but a much more respectable fate than others that could've befallen her, and upon regaining her memory returned home to her husband.

She lived in comfort and ease, despite the gossip-mongering and suspicion. Her heart and soul, however, remained absent, as if she had left them long behind her.

That was until she had sat down this morning with her husband's newspaper. It was unladylike to be interested in anything but the society pages that discussed which ball was well-received and which gowns were on display the previous evening. Emily always went straight for the 'hard' news. She could never have said quite why, that was until now. Because she had found it.

And her heart, whose existence she had begun to question, had leapt into her throat and then took a pace to best those set at Epsom Downs. Her hands were shaking and she couldn't seem to manage steadying them. Furtively, Emily glanced around. Thankfully, the elder Lady Merchant found the presence of the younger mistress of the title intolerable and was conspicuously absent from the back parlour. Lord Merchant, too, had vacated the sitting room without her notice. Likely out on a hunt with Lord Fitzsimmons and the Duke of Coveney, somewhere she still longed to be (not for the company but for the outdoors and vigorous activity) but no longer even made the futile effort of the request.

Were there servants lurking nearby? There always were, whether they were visible or not. Thus, despite being seemingly alone, Emily _calmly_ set aside the paper, rose from the settee in a smooth movement, straightened her skirts and bodice and collectedly traversed the large manor to her rooms. As soon as the heavy door closed with a soft _thud_ behind her, the bottled emotions burst forth from her like a whirlwind.

A gateway!

It could only be a gateway. The author of the article hadn't the slightest notion on the origin of the strange creatures. Nor the magistrates or constabulary he'd interviewed. Nobody knew. But Emily knew. It simply felt _right._

Throwing herself on her stomach upon the plush oriental rug, Emily peered under her bed. With a smile, she reached into the dark depths and pulled the small trunk from its hiding spot. Hidden somewhere not so secret as to arouse real suspicion. It took several tries to loosen the straps that held it shut tight, her hands were still trembling with excitement.

On top, resided the item she had most removed from its trove, gently handled, depended on for solace every night only to tuck it securely away every morning. She buried her face in the fabric, though it had long lost the scent she sought. It was a presence that had taken root deep inside of her, however, and she still felt the comfort of it. Would Matt even realize she had taken it?

She blushed a little, as if she were a young girl with a keepsake stolen from the person of her beloved. Not even a beau, just a man with whom she had been secretly infatuated. It wasn't so silly as all that, was it?

Perhaps, it was.

But there had been something about that man, something that stirred her in ways she'd never experienced before. But more than all of that, there had been this underlying vein of comfort despite all of the confusion, frustration and excitement of being in that time. And it had been in the form of a man. An Irishman with a piercing blue gaze, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and an insufferable protective streak.

He had hugged her so tight.

Emily resisted the urge to shed all of her clothing, wrap herself in the reassuring embrace of Matthew Anderson's liberated shirt and crawl into bed and dream of a place where she belonged.

Now, there was the chance she could _find_ that place of which she dreamed. Because those creature attacks... they had happened just a couple of days ago. There was a chance that the gateway was still open and that she could get to it in time.

Oh, the chances that it led to where she really desired to be were nonexistent. Fortunately for her, however, she would gladly accept being _anywhere but here _as consolation. She set the shirt gently aside.

They had kissed goodbye. A quick peck on the lips. She oft lamented its brevity, its curtness. But she knew why it had been so. Anything more... anything more and she wouldn't have been able to leave. Anything more and he wouldn't have been able to let her go.

She pulled her old clothing from the trunk -the worn corset and corset cover, the drawers and skirts, the jacket- that had become like a second skin over the years. They had wanted to destroy them, and so as not to seem contrary to being generously accepted back into the bosom of Merchant family, she had not argued. She had, however, instructed Amelia to save the items (surprisingly the young woman had been kept on the staff even though there was no lady to tend to after Emily's disappearance). And brilliant girl that she was, Amelia had done so.

Damn! It was near impossible for a lady to extricate herself from such an elaborate bodice on her own. Emily fumbled about, feeling for the pins and fasteners that held her prisoner in her receiving gown.

"May I be of assistance, ma'am?"

Emily yelped. Her poor thumping heart actually skipped a beat before continuing its excited pace.

"Bollocks! Amelia, You frightened me!"

The maid looked thoroughly admonished by the strong language from her mistress. Emily felt guilt bite at her stomach.

"I believe I owe you an apology," Emily said, turning her back to her 'inferior' whom also happened to be her closest companion. Amelia's deft fingers quickly set about the task of liberating Emily from the layers of silk and cotton.

"Not nes'ry, ma'am. I ought to have announced m' presence."

That's not from where the bulk of the guilt was derived.

"It can't have been easy for you..." Emily said. "After my...er... _disappearance._"

She had told Amelia the truth. It was a horrible pressure that she just had to release or she'd burst. And the only one she trusted was the servant.

"You're leavin' again."

Amelia's voice was flat, as if she were commenting upon the weather with no real care to whether it poured. It was an obvious fiction of a carefully tailored demeanour.

"I believe there's a gateway in Brighton."

Emily stepped out of her skirts, shed the underclothes and began to dress in those laid out upon the bed, that were not much more than rags really (at least in comparison to the elegant pieces stored in the numerous, elaborate wardrobes purchased for the sole purpose of housing her gowns). She didn't look at Amelia.

She shrugged into Matt's shirt, buttoning it and tucking it into her skirts reverently, before adorning her leather jacket.

"You'll be searchin' for 'im?" Amelia asked. Emily had been careful to guard her emotions when speaking of Matt to her ladies' mai_-friend_, but the young woman was obviously perceptive. When she met her gaze, Emily was truly struck by the emotion in the depths of her grey eyes.

"From what you told me... you mightn't even find 'im. Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but you 'ave a home. I know it's not the 'appiest, but it's more than a lot got, if you take my meanin'. And I'm sorry for sayin' so, but 's the truth."

"No apologies are necessary, Amelia." Emily forced a smile on her face, realizing that she would indeed miss one thing from this life. "I'm glad you've spoken your mind, because it's time we say 'goodbye.'"

The look of pure desolation on Amelia's face tugged at Emily's heart. Suddenly, she felt compelled to make her friend understand.

"This isn't my _home_," she said. "And no longer is it my parents' house, as it once was, when I was a child. It's been so long since I felt as if I truly belonged in a place..."

Amelia nodded. "My home is with you, m' lady. Always has been."

It took a moment for Emily to take the young woman's meaning, and when she did it shocked her into silence. She really ought to dispute Amelia's intentions, but the thought of some of the places she had been on the other side of the gateways... to be alone. It was frightening. To have a friend might ease her journey.

"Traveling clothes," Emily said. "Only what you can wear. And anything you think useful. But only what you can carry on your person with ease."

Amelia smiled broadly.

"And don't let anyone catch you at it."

The maid promised exuberantly to be quick and discreet, before she practically threw herself at Emily's bedroom door, which she had thankfully closed tightly upon originally entering so that no one had overheard the exchange.

"And you had better start calling me 'Emily.'" This gained her the rare grin that lit up the girl's entire face before she disappeared into the vast manor. She really was quite pretty when not playing the demure servant girl she'd been fated to be in life. Well, apparently, fated only for the first part of her life...

Perhaps, she shouldn't have... Emily shook her head, casting the foreboding thoughts away. Amelia was just as trapped and miserable as she, and Emily could not bring herself to leaving her behind without the little comfort the station of

'lady's maid' bestowed. She'd be demoted to scullery maid or something worse this time. Perhaps, thrown out altogether.

But this way, maybe the young woman who had only defined her existence with service to others would also find a place where she could be herself and still belong. A real home.

Emily sighed as she pulled on her boots and tucked the dagger into the left one. This was not going to be an easy journey. But she had never been one for the easy path. Even when she was a little girl, Emily always took the long road home...

…

_145 years later..._

"I love you, Emily."

The strong arm that was wrapped about her waist pulled her tighter to the naked body she was curled against.

"I know," she said. A sharp, little stab of pain made her flinch as the flesh of her side was pinched by the same hand that had been caressing her skin so gently.

Lord, he could be so infantile and apparently was in constant need of reassurance (even though he well knew her feelings). But, she supposed that she could give him it this one night, since it was a special occasion.

"I love you, too, Matt."

She was rewarded with a full, tender kiss, that were she not already entirely spent, she would've definitely seen developed into more. Of an equal mindset, he instead relinquished her lips and they returned to laying easily in one another's arms. Emily sighed when her husband of less than a day (and all of eternity) fell asleep. His breathing was a slow, steady rhythm that lulled her.

And as her eyelids grew heavy, she nuzzled into his warm flesh once more before joining him in her dreams.

Emily's last thought as she drifted off to a blissful sleep was that she had finally made it _home_.

END

* * *

**A/N: So, sort of just realized that this is the most epic/longest fanfic I've written thus far. Guess these two just hardcore stole my imagination. **

**And now, maybe I can scrounge up some Primeval Series 5 episodes... (although I watch them with my friend, generally, so the waiting on her is quite painful!)**


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